One of a Kind
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Two Lorelais, Two Deans, and a Sam. Crossover with Gilmore Girls.
1. Chapter 1

Title: One of a Kind 1/8

Summary: Two Lorelais, Two Deans, and a Sam. Crossover with Gilmore Girls.

A/N: I know it's been done before, but it was too appealing to not try myself. I think it's a little different than most of the other crossovers between these two fandoms, at least of the ones I've read, so hopefully it works. I think you can read this without much more than a vague understanding of Gilmore Girls, though the more you know of both fandoms, the more you'll catch.

A/N 2: Much thanks to Tyranusfan for the beta on this one. He was the perfect beta, and I appreciated him trying to make sense of all the Deans in this story. Also, thanks to sendintehclowns who always helps me plot and plan and provides constant cheerleading.

A/N 3: General FYI, this story deals with both Dean Forester and Dean Winchester--I think it's fairly clear which one is which, but for those who struggle, keep in mind that I do a structured rotating POV in this fic. Each chapter starts with Sam, is followed by Dean Forester, and ends with Dean Winchester. Thanks to Tyranusfan, I think it's pretty clear which is which. This is set preseries for Sam and Dean Winchester and early S3 for Dean Forester.

Disclaimer: None of the Winchesters or any of the people in Stars Hollow are mine.

* * *

CHAPTER ONE

Sam ran.

His father was fond of making them run, told them that endurance was key to survival, that stopping to catch your breath just made you wide open to attack. After all, he reasoned, ghosts don't have to stop to pant.

Sam was often loathe to admit when his father was right. The man was a self-righteous, self-centered, single-minded ass of a man, but even Sam had to admit that sometimes the man was just plain _right_ about some things.

He owed his father a huge thanks at the end of all this. Because it was only for the incessantly _obnoxious_ training that Sam was alive at all. And hell, if he survived this? Sam would hug him and train for a month straight without so much as a peep of discontent.

But he had to survive it first.

His feet fell hard on the uneven terrain as he did his best to navigate the unfamiliar territory on the fly. Trees flew by him and he couldn't even hear the rustling of the late fall foliage as he continued his frantic run. No, all he could hear was the pounding of his heart, loud and fast and desperate in his ears.

At this pace, he couldn't even feel the rest of his body. Which was good, Sam figured, given the injuries he knew he had sustained. A probable concussion. Blood loss from a gash on the arm. Some bruised ribs, maybe a broken one. A sprained wrist. A black eye so swollen that it skewed his entire field of vision. Likely broken nose. More bruises and abrasions than he could count, and the tree branches he was flying through certainly weren't helping matters.

But none of it mattered. Not right now. He'd deal with that when he had the chance. His father was right about something else, too: get the hell out of harm's way before you stop. Always. You can lick your wounds as long as you're free. As long as you're _safe_.

Sam just wanted to be safe. That's all he'd ever wanted since he was eight years old and learned that safety was nothing more than a illusion most people got by locking their doors at night.

No, safety was guns and salt and exorcisms and silver bullets.

Safety was running as far and fast as he could and hoping like hell that for once in his life, it was fast enough.

Dad would come. Dean, too. No matter how pissed they were at him for disappearing, they'd come. Sam just had to stay alive long enough for them to find him. Alive.

Sam pitched forward, severely off-balance, foot snagging a rut obscured by the leaves. He didn't even have time to panic as he went down hard. His entire world shifted, tilting nauseatingly as he tumbled, his leg twisting painfully at the ankle. He hit the ground with a bone-jarring velocity, propelling him head over heels.

The entire thing happened so fast that Sam didn't see the incline until he was rolling down it. He felt rocks and sticks scrape against his already-battered body.

His mind went through a string of obscenities as he envisioned every possible conclusion to his descent.

He'd run far and fast, and Dean and his dad would _come_ and he just had to stay alive and hidden and maybe the end of this wouldn't be that bad.

Sam's head connected painfully with something solid and everything went black.

-o-

"No, it's okay," Dean said again. "Really."

"No, it's not okay," the girl on the other end of the line said. "I told you that you could come over, that we could hang out and eat ice cream and I even taped a little CSPAN--"

Dean laughed, his voice resounding in the empty streets. "Rory, I understand," he said. "As appealing as CSPAN is, you have homework. And I had to work late anyway."

"You _are_ off late," Rory replied. "Taylor working you too hard?"

"We might want to notify our senator. We could be looking at a violation of human rights."

"Wouldn't surprise me," Rory agreed. "Taylor is a tyrant."

"But I get a lot of extra money when I close the store."

"Ah, silver linings," Rory said. "Very half full of you. Where are you now?"

Dean glanced behind him at the retreating lights of the town square. "Just past Luke's," he said.

"So it shouldn't take you long to get home."

"Nope, I'll be home in time for my mother to hassle me to do the dishes."

"Well then, it's a good thing you don't stop by here," Rory said. "Our water bottle is getting pretty low and we've both been avoiding the hall closet because we saw some suspicious movement in there."

"Just keep the door shut and I'll tackle it when I see you tomorrow."

"Right after school," Rory promised.

"I wouldn't miss it."

"Great," Rory said. "Talk to you before school?"

Dean couldn't help but grin. "My phone will be on."

"Love you."

"I love you, too," Dean said. "Don't study all night, okay?"

"I am at the mercy of mathematics."

"Then at least keep yourself hydrated."

"The coffee pot is going."

"Remember water, too."

"But the water bottle--"

Dean just rolled his eyes. "I'll call you and make sure you're still alive in the morning."

"My knight in shining armor."

"Goodnight," Dean said.

"Goodnight."

Dean disconnected the call, feeling more than a little content. Working all evening after a long day at school was never his idea of a good time, but the money was good, and he'd even managed to get his science homework finished on his dinner break. Taylor, despite all his bluster and gruff, was finally beginning to trust him, so as time consuming as closing was, Dean knew it was a good sign.

Besides, there were things to pay for. Car insurance, saving for college, Rory.

_Rory_.

He couldn't help but grin. Even in all the hours at the store, in the chores at home, in the workload of school, in hockey practice and building cars, there was Rory. Rory who made Stars Hollow not feel like the middle of nowhere. Rory who made all the work worthwhile. Rory who made his life just that much better.

When he turned the corner toward home, the smile was still on his face. He was thinking of how he could get his English homework done and where he could take Rory this weekend when he heard a noise behind him--a scuffle of footsteps and a flurry or hushed whispers.

There was no such thing as privacy in a small town, after all, so it wasn't so surprising. He just hoped that it wasn't Kirk. He'd caught a peek of the guy on one of his sleepwalking escapades and Dean still hadn't totally recovered.

He just shook his head and quickened his pace. Dishes at home were better than Kirk in the nude.

Then he heard it again, louder this time, and harder to ignore. He sighed. "Kirk, if that's you, really, I'm not going to help you home this time."

The noise quieted suddenly, which was enough to give Dean pause. The eccentric residents of Stars Hollow were quirky, no doubt, but this behavior was pushing it, even for them.

He paused, collecting his breath. "I swear, if you're naked--"

He never finished his sentence. He never even managed to turn around.

The first blow came to the back of his head and a sudden weight came down heavily on him, sending him crashing to the ground. Stars exploded behind his eyes and the air was forced for his body.

By the time he regained his senses, he realized there was someone on top of him. Someone large, beefy. Someone not Kirk. Not Luke. Not anyone from Stars Hollow.

It was like a bad movie. Or a book. Or the news. Or something that happened to other people in other towns and ended up on 60 Minutes and if Dean didn't do something, he had no idea what would happen to him. He could just disappear, he could die, he could leave his family, his mother, his sister, Rory--

That thought gave him a shot of adrenaline that propelled his tall body from under the man's weight, bucking him successfully so Dean could roll away. When a second guy charged him, he lashed out with a punch. He felt the burn of skin on his knuckle and heard a curse and thanked his lucky stars for that much.

His victory, however, was as short lived as his run of luck.

The first guy was up and hit Dean with a punch that darkened Dean's vision and made his teeth literally rattle.

He was in trouble.

No, he was in a _lot_ of trouble.

Dean lashed out blindly again, this time with much less success. He was on his feet, but barely, and he was pretty sure he was bleeding now and if he could just cause enough of a scene, get someone's attention--

"Help!" he screamed, because pride be damned. He just wanted to stay alive. He kicked and thrashed and the man grappling with him.

He opened his mouth to scream again when the other one got him from behind. His yell was squelched as he was pulled backwards, an arm anchoring him tightly against the larger body.

Panic flared anew. There was an arm around his neck, he was being strangled--oh, God, he was going to die.

His efforts diverted to survival, hands grasping frantically against the unyielding grip. He kicked, legs working desperately.

This stuff just didn't happen. Not in Stars Hollow. In a town where everybody knew everything and why wasn't anyone around to see this?

His vision was dimming around the edges and no matter how hard he tried, there was no way out.

Was this what it was like to die?

Dean didn't know and he didn't want to find out but he really didn't have much say in that anymore.

His last thought was of Rory and her homework and Lorelai's water bottle and the dishes at home and how Taylor would be so mad at him for missing his shift before school tomorrow.

-o-

The first thing he was aware of was voices.

Two of them, distinct voices, deep and rough and very, very unfamiliar.

"You think he's close enough?"

"Build is a little less, I guess," another replied. "But the hair and the face--they look the same."

"The clothes are all wrong."

He wanted to open his eyes, to move, to do something, but it couldn't happen. He didn't have the energy. Didn't have the ability. Didn't even know who these guys were, didn't know who they were talking about, though he had a sinking suspicion they were talking about him.

"We can rip the shirt some more."

If Dean were capable of feeling worse, that would have done it.

"Still, we're talking about the guy's _son_, I think he'll know the difference."

"We aren't going to send him high resolution photos here," the other said. "We'll rough up his face a bit more, keep him dazed, and it'll be enough."

"You sure?"

"Have you met John Winchester?" he asked. "Nothing comes between him and his boys. That's why we started this to begin with."

Dean realized suddenly his eyes were open. His vision was still darkened and scrambled but his eyes were definitely open.

"Kid's awake," the first said and Dean heard movement and saw someone moving toward him as he tried to lift his head.

"About damn time," the second said. "The other kid wasn't nearly this slow."

"Well, you did clock him a good one," the first pointed out. "You didn't need to throw him in the trunk like that."

Slow, getting clocked, trunks. This had to be a nightmare. A bad, really awful nightmare. Even worse and more surreal than Rory's nightmares. Even worse than the few he'd heard from Lorelai which, in all truth, the mere description of had from time to time haunted his own dreams.

He blinked, his vision clearing a little, and he finally was able to raise his head and focus on the scene in front of him.

There were two men, scruffy and older than him, but not as old as he might have thought. They were clothed in dirty flannel and well-worn denim and one of them had a baseball cap pulled low, shadowing an unshaven face.

They were both looking at him, the one with the baseball cap perched on the edge of a table, arms crossed across his chest. The other was standing over him, peering at him with an intent gaze that Dean found unnerving.

Just about as unnerving as the fact that he was tied to a chair, rope tight against his chest and wound thoroughly around his hands, which were anchored solidly behind his back. Even his feet were tethered tight to the legs of the chair he was in, and Dean tensed in a sudden need to _move_.

But he could do no more than twitch and the panic at being immobilized only increased when he cried out and found himself to be gagged as well.

The man standing over him chuckled a little. "There's nowhere to go, kid," he said. "Sorry 'bout that. But we took too many shortcuts the first time and got screwed over for it. We need you to stay put and the more you move, the more you're going to hurt yourself."

Dean looked up, eyes wide and uncomprehending. What the hell was this guy talking about?

"Why bother telling him anything at all?" the guy with the baseball hat chimed in. "It's not like we have much that we can tell him that's going to help any."

"Don't you think he wants to know why?" the other asked.

Dean's eyes flickered to the guy with the baseball cap who just grunted a laugh. "We kidnapped him off the street and we've got him tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere. What are we going to tell him that's going to make him feel better? Come on, Ryan. Use your head. We lost the other kid because you were too damn stupid to cross your t's and dot your i's. That's the whole reason we had to grab this kid. And I don't know who the hell he is or what his story is or anything about him. And I don't care. We can't care. Because this kid is our new bait and if we're going to pull it off, we can't be buddy-buddy with him."

Ryan, as Dean could only figure was the name of the guy standing, sighed. "But it's not his fault," he said. "He has nothing to do with this."

Dean wanted to protest. To ask why. To beg. _Anything_. But the gag lived up to its name and his words were nothing more than muffled grunts that both men easily ignored.

"You're right," the baseball cap guy said. "Nothing at all. He just happens to look like the kid we lost. That's all. But you forget something. This isn't about the kid. It's not even about the other kid. This is about Winchester. This is about getting Winchester here and taking from him what he took from us. It's about making him pay. We decided before we hatched this plan that we'd do whatever it takes."

Even through his swollen eye, Dean could see Ryan swallow a bit nervously. "Yeah, and I thought that meant Winchester's kids. Not random kids."

The guy with the baseball cap stood up and shook his head. "You're a damn coward," he said. "There was a reason Dad never trusted you with anything."

"Oh, and like you've done such a bang up job so far," Ryan spat back. "I'm not the one the Winchester kid knocked unconscious."

At full height, Dean could see that the baseball cap guy was the taller of the two, and carried himself with far more weight and imposition than the other. "Yeah? Well, hell, Ry-no, who let the kid loose to begin with? Who the hell almost got taken down by some small town nobody? He probably would have gotten away if it wasn't for me."

Ryan's face hardened and even with one eye, Dean could see him blanch. He wanted to think that the knowledge that he'd put up a decent fight would be some kind of solace. But as he twisted his hands in their bindings--he was beginning to lose feeling in them entirely--there was no solace in any of it.

"Yeah, well, it was your plan to begin with," Ryan replied sulkily, and it was a look that Dean recognized. One that his baby sister so often gave to him.

They were brothers, it occurred to him suddenly. These were brothers.

Somehow that meager revelation didn't exactly bolster his confidence.

"Yeah, my plan to avenge Dad. You know why we're doing this. Because Dad's nothing but ash right now and there's only one person to blame. One person who could have saved him. One person who was supposed to be backing him up and let him _die_."

Ryan seemed to swallow hard and Dean's mind worked frantically to put the pieces together. This was a mission of vengeance, of revenge. Or something. Something about a guy named Winchester and his kids and these guys' father and Dean had nothing to do with any of it.

Except that he was tied to a chair with a swollen eye and a headache that would not quit.

"I haven't forgotten," Ryan said. "And I want to get Winchester."

"Then we _need_ this kid," the baseball cap guy, gesturing to Dean for the first time since he woke up. "This kid is our ticket to Winchester."

At that, Dean's heart skipped a beat and his breath hitched. He pulled uselessly at his bonds again.

Ryan sighed a little, scrubbing a hand through his hair, and Dean noticed for the first time a bruise on his cheek. The man looked at him for the first time, made eye contact with Dean's good eye, and Dean's stomach bottomed out.

There was a trace of compassion in the man's face, but not nearly enough. Compassion not for what had happened. But what was about to happen.

Ryan pursed his lips, holding Dean's gaze a second more before glancing back at his brother. "I'll get the camera."

The guy with the baseball cap grinned, patting his brother's shoulder affectionately. "There you go, little brother," he said.

"Just--just don't do more than you have to, okay?" Ryan asked.

"Aw, come on, Ry-no."

Ryan's gaze was steady on his brother. "The kid doesn't deserve to suffer. He doesn't even know Winchester."

"You're trying to spoil all my fun."

Dean knew all about spoiled fun. At this point, all he knew _was_ spoiled fun.

Ryan just shook his head. "I'll be back in five."

Dean's breathing stopped entirely as Ryan turned and left, shoulders slumped and eyes turned downward, like he knew what was going to happen.

Like he knew that Dean didn't _deserve _to suffer. Like he knew that Dean didn't know anything about anyone named Winchester, that he had nothing to do with any of this at all.

Like he knew that Dean was just a kid from Stars Hollow who worked at the market and watched his little sister after school. Who loved his girlfriend and liked playing with cars and who had even read Jane Austen under duress just because Rory wanted him to.

Like all of that was true, but that it didn't make a bit of difference. Like Dean Forester was an innocent kid about to get the crap beat out of him and Ryan was just going to let it happen.

The guy with the cap made a noise in his throat, something deep and satisfied, and Dean turned panicked eyes back up to him.

The guy smiled. "This isn't personal, kid," he said. "I just want you to know that much."

Dean couldn't have spoken even if the gag wasn't in his mouth. He felt sick and weak and terrified. Tears burned his eyes. He just wanted to go home.

He saw the punch coming but he had no way of dodging it. He braced himself as best he could, but there was nothing he could do.

Dean was just relieved when the first punch knocked him out.

-o-

Two days.

Two days was a long time for Winchesters. Two days could wrap up a hunt, could take them across country, could let Dean woo a girl and leave her with the fondest of memories.

Two days with Sam missing--well, that was a whole new way to measure time. That was two days where Sam could be hurt, where Sam could be bleeding, _dying_. Two days of torture, of Sam being alone, of Dean being alone, of his father not stopping to eat or sleep or _anything_.

Because Sam had been missing for two days.

The kid had gone to school one morning and just never come back. Traipsed off sulking about chemistry homework or something and bitching about the fact that they'd be up and moving in about a week but the damn kid just didn't come home. That just pissed him off and then it freaked him out, which then just pissed him off even more.

Dean didn't notice at first. He was, after all, working a little bit at a mechanic's shop to earn a little extra cash, but when he got home and found that Sam wasn't there? Well, it was more than a little odd.

Sam was sulky and broody and a pain in the ass half the time, but late? Not quite Sammy's style. If he was going to be stupid and rebellious, he wanted people to know about it. Sam wasn't disobedient in subterfuge these days.

By the time their dad got home that night, Dean had called the school, he'd called the library, he'd called the little old lady down the street who liked to watch Sam from the window (creepy, but a good source of mockery for Dean to draw from). He'd even called Sam's ex-science partner and the other little geeks who were Mathletes with Sam.

Nothing.

The days after that had been nothing but full-on searching. All of their skills, all of their resources, all diverted to finding Sam.

His dad hadn't said much, not that the guy was much of a talker, but this was a singularity of focus that Dean had rarely seen.

It was that stoicism alone that had managed to keep Dean from freaking out altogether. After all, Sam was _missing_ and they didn't know where the hell he was and Dean didn't feel calm or collected or together--he just wanted his brother _back_.

His dad's orders gave him purpose, though, gave him something to do with the pent up frustration that was building up inside of him. That was what he needed to focus on. Getting Sam back.

With a gulp, Dean drowned the rest of his coffee and refocused at the task at hand. Their first tack had been to check out the possible supernatural culprits. Looking for any trails of other missing kids, stories of hauntings, or strange creatures. Something or anything. A sign or a hint or some lead to work of off.

Turned out that Connecticut was about the least supernatural state in the entire freakin' Union, at least since Dean and his dad had gotten rid of the poltergeist last week.

Nothing on record that would have taken Sam.

So now they were following up on the human angle. They'd scoured the podunk town they were staying in and no one knew anything. Or so they said so far. They'd done a preliminary combing of the surrounding area but it was a needle in a haystack. They needed more to go on than, well, _nothing_.

Which was why they were here.

The sign on the town said something utterly hokey like Starry Haze or Twinkly Grove and the downtown was full of damn quaint buildings and people milling down the streets like they were actually _happy _there.

His dad was checking out the excuse for the police station. Dean had promised to try to rustle something up out of some of the locals. After perusing the greeting card streets, he'd picked the diner as the best place to start. Nursing a cup of coffee, he'd gotten the lay of the land to try to figure out who to talk to that might actually be helpful in finding his brother.

A lot of people had come in and out; a gaggle of little old women had holed up at a table and gossiped loudly about the latest make-ups and break-ups. Some freaky gangly guy had parked at the counter and persisted in bothering the help with an endless barrage of questions that had culminated in a pencil very nearly being gouged in an improper location.

And that--Dean could work with that. That guy was the guy he needed to talk to. Not the gangly guy, but the worker. Sour faced, scruffy, clad in flannel. Dean's kind of people…if Dean ever wanted such a mind-numbing existence.

But more than that, the guy saw people come in and out all day. He knew them. He knew their kinks and idiosyncrasies. Plus, he knew all the news. How could he not, waiting on _this_ crowd?

When Flannel Guy came back, coffee pot in hand, he said, "More coffee?"

Dean nodded holding his cup out. "So, quite a town you folks have here."

"Yeah, it's one of a kind," Flannel Guy said with an unabashed glare at the crowd in the diner.

Dean rustled in his pocket and pulled out Sam's photo. The thing was two years old, something Sam had talked him into taking at a mall photo booth one afternoon while they were killing time. Their dad had been gone on a hunt and Sam had been insufferably gloomy, so Dean had agreed. Luckily they'd managed to take one on the strip without an obscene gesture. The quality wasn't great, but it was Sam, and the closest thing he had to a modern snapshot to show around. "Have you seen this kid?"

Flannel Guy looked skeptically at Dean for a second before looking at the photo. Then he really seemed to see it and looked closer, forehead crinkling. "What about him?"

"You know him?" Dean asked, a little shocked. He had been hoping for a lead, but so easily?

"That kid? Sure. Dean Forester. Works at the market. Dates Rory Gilmore."

So much for an easy lead. "No--no, his name's Sam."

"Really?" Flannel Guy asked, looking closer. "Huh. He's a dead ringer for Dean."

Well now that just sounded weird to hear. And was completely not helpful.

"You talking about Dean Forester?" the gangly guy suddenly cut in. "I hear his missed his shift this morning."

"Eat your breakfast, Kirk," Flannel Guy said.

"Well, I couldn't help but overhear your conversation. And it seems sort of coincidental, don't you think? Someone flashing a picture of Dean Forester when Dean Forester missed his shift at Doose's?"

"This isn't Dean Forester or whoever you're talking about," Dean emphasized. "Look closer."

Flannel Guy just shook his head. "Man, the similarities are kind of creepy," he said.

Dean sighed, trying to hide his exasperation. "But have you seen him?"

Flannel Guy shook his head. "Can't say that I have."

"But have you seen Dean Forester?" Kirk prompted.

"Who the hell is Dean Forester?" Dean interjected.

"The kid in the photo," Kirk said.

"No, this is my brother, Sam."

Kirk scooted a few seats over, peering intently at the photo. "Wow, the likeness is remarkable," he said. "But Dean Forester has better groomed hair."

"Never thought I'd hear anyone say that," Flannel Guy snorted.

"So no one has seen this kid?" Dean prodded.

"Unless they are in fact the same kid suffering from a case of multiple personality disorder," Kirk conjectured. "One day, he's Dean Forester. The next, this Sam kid."

Dean just glared. "Dude, Sam's my brother. He has nothing to do with this Dean kid."

"Your brother?" Kirk clarified.

"Pain in the ass and all."

"And he's missing?"

"I just want to know if you've seen him," Dean gritted out.

"So he is missing."

"Kirk, leave the man alone," Flannel Guy muttered.

"I'm just noting how very creepy this all is getting," Kirk said more to the guy than to Dean. "Dean misses his shift, this guy's brother missing." He turned back to Dean. "Have you considered the possibility that this is a conspiracy?"

"Have you considered shutting up before everyone around you before everyone realizes that you actually don't have a brain?" Flannel Guy asked, like he didn't know the answer, which everyone there clearly did.

Kirk actually seemed to consider that. "The shutting up part has been suggested to me in the past, and I tried it once but it didn't work out."

The Flannel Guy didn't even crack a smile. "Imagine that."

"It was quite traumatic, actually," Kirk said. "My vocal cords seized up from lack of use and I nearly had a panic attack trying to get them working again. Mother had to take me to the ER where they prescribed some kind of muscle relaxations that made me sick. But once the throwing up stopped, I was able to talk again. However, now that I think about it, maybe the apparent absence of my brain is because it has taken on the appearance of a long-hair teenager that has gone missing as well. There seems to be a rash of those lately."

"Yeah, that seems likely," Flannel Guy said.

Dean just rolled his eyes. Another dead end. "Look, if you see him, just tell him I was looking for him."

"Who, Dean?" Kirk said.

"No, Sam," Dean clarified.

Kirk looked perplexed. "And who are you?"

"I'm Dean."

"Forester?"

"Winchester."

Kirk furrowed his bushy brows. "So if I see Dean Forester I'm supposed to tell him that Sam Winchester is looking for him?"

Dean scowled. "No, if you see _Sam_ tell him that _Dean _is looking for him."

Kirk's confusion seemed to deepen. "But why is Dean Forester looking for this Sam Winchester?"

"You know what?" Dean said, plunking a few bills on the counter. "Just forget it."

As he walked out into the street, Dean could hear Flannel Guy arguing with Kirk about pod people and long lost twins, which might have been funny were it not so damn disappointing.

Two days and still no Sam. Two days, a freaky-ass quaint, small town and _still no Sam_.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thank you for the nice comments about part one :) Some parts of the fic are more humorous than others, and some are necessarily serious (we do have some kidnapped Jareds, after all). Also, plot? Plot? What do you mean I have to have a plot! The fact that it's not completely full of holes is thanks to Tyranusfan. Other notes and disclaimers in the first chapter.

* * *

CHAPTER TWO

It smelled funny.

Of all the things to notice, that probably wasn't really the most useful thing, but he couldn't control what his subconscious mind chose to focus on. And right now, all he could think of was that smell--must and dirt, with a hint of pine and wood, all chilled by cold Connecticut air.

That thought roused him a little. He was lying on his side, with his nose buried in the loose leaves that littered the forest floor.

No wonder it smelled so much.

He jerked to full awareness and instantly regretted the motion. Sure, it got his nose out of the matted foliage, but it set the rest of his body on fire. Pain spiked in his head and his chest constricted as he curled over in a fit of coughing.

When it passed, his face was pressed into the ground once again, but this time he couldn't smell at all. All he knew was pain.

He lay like that until the spasms of pain eased and when he was able to open his eyes.

Or eye.

He'd forgotten about the swelling.

He wished he could forget about the rest.

Pulling himself to a sitting position, Sam cradled his injured arm close to his body and took in his position. He was at the bottom of an incline, one lined with branches, trees, and rocks--no wonder he felt worse than before.

Fleeing was still of the utmost priority, but the woods were quiet and lonely, and he wouldn't get very far until he knew just what condition he was in. He needed to know if holing up was his best option or if flight was still on the table.

Which made him turn his attention to himself. His head ached--if he'd had a concussion before, he'd only made it worse with his trip down the hill, which might also explain the growing nausea in his stomach. It was harder to breathe than he remembered, but that could as easily be the growing coldness as exacerbated rib injuries. Still, the ribs warranted caution, and were he feeling more up to it, Sam could attempt to figure out if they were broken now or not.

But the idea of inflicting more pain on himself was not high on his list of things to do at the moment. His consciousness was tenuous at best as it was, so he'd just proceed with due caution and assume the worst.

His wrist, however, was a different story. Obviously swollen under his long-sleeved t-shirt, he could still move his fingers, and he was pretty sure it was just a bad sprain. Further up the arm, he could see the still seeping gash and figured that might account for some of the lightheadedness.

Of all the wounds, that was the one he would have to treat before moving on. It was the only one he could do anything about anyway.

Unfortunately, Sam had no supplies. He had nothing but the clothes he was wearing and he was reluctant to give up any of it. The day was cold enough already and if he was still out when night came, he might be running the risk of low-grade hypothermia.

It was the lesser of two evils, and blood loss would do him in faster than the cold. With that resolve, he took to ripping a strip from his shirt. It was hard work one handed, and even more so with his fingers aching from the cold. He had to use his mouth to tie it, and his arm seared in protest to the pressure but after long, painful minutes, it was done.

The entire process left him spent and exhausted, collapsed and heaving on the ground.

When he could think again, he almost wished he couldn't. Because all his injuries aside, he was so screwed.

And to think, only two days ago, he'd been with his dad and brother, trying to get everything he could from his last few days in Connecticut. That was, of course, before he'd been jumped on his way home.

In retrospect, Sam should have been able to get out of it right then and there. Not that he should have seen it coming, because really, who planned on being abducted on the way home from school, but there was no way in hell he should have let himself be taken down by two _humans_.

Of course, they hadn't exactly played fair. He'd heard them trailing him half a block before they struck. That had given him time to ascertain that he was indeed being followed and allowed him a few moments of mental preparation. His list of culprits was short and sweet at that point. A few guys looking for a quick buck. A junkie just needing enough for a fix. Neither would be improbable. Hartford wasn't a huge city, nor was it known for its criminal activity, but most of Hartford liked to forget that the bad part of town even existed--which was, of course, exactly where the Winchesters had holed up for their brief stay in Connecticut.

So he'd anticipated something quick and kind of sloppy or maybe just a severe bout of paranoia on his part.

He dodged the first blow before it came, ducking and rolling away before following up with a kicked that landed hard to the attacker's midsection. The guy went down pretty hard and Sam had every intention of cutting and running when he saw the second guy.

And that had been a bit of a surprise. Two-bit criminals didn't usually mug in pairs. Probably because there wasn't enough loot in that kind of thing to split between two people. Though, Sam had never really put much thought into why humans would even do that kind of thing to begin with. Spirits and monsters, they couldn't help it if they were evil. People--their irrationality was nearly incomprehensible, because humans had the choice. And why someone would willing choose something evil when there was already so much bad stuff in the world?

In retrospect, Sam sort of wished he'd thought about it.

The second guy had been a little harder and the hand to hand went on a bit longer before Sam saw a window of opportunity to cut and run fast. He made it two feet before he was tackled from behind.

It wasn't a technique he'd been expecting, nor was it one that he'd particularly practiced at home. The pavement was rough and tore easily through his hand-me-down clothes.

The impact had jarred him well enough to the point where he wasn't able to roll through it and found himself flat on his back with his attacker perched on top of them, a smirk of a smile on his face.

That was when Sam figured out that this wasn't a random mugging. These guys weren't junkies looking for a quick fix. No, this was something else, something personal--

The guy had just grinned as Sam struggled fruitlessly, wishing like hell that his dad was here, that Dean was here, that someone--

He'd been knocked clear into oblivion at that point--for the first time of this ordeal, anyway, and it hadn't been his last.

The area he was in now was a far cry from the rundown Hartford streets and for a second, Sam realized he couldn't even be sure he was still in Connecticut. After being knocked out on the street, he'd awoken someplace else--some kind of cabin, secluded in the woods. These woods. These never-ending, cold, _miserable _woods.

He sighed, letting his head drop to his knees. He was so damn tired right now. He just wanted to sleep through this part.

But sleeping through it would probably kill him. And he'd gotten this far...

He jerked his head up, blinking dazedly. This far. Wherever _this_ was. He didn't even know how far he was from the cabin, how close he was to any kind of town or road or any hint of civilization. He didn't even know if they were still looking for him.

They had been pissed, Sam remembered that clearly enough. But who were _they _exactly? Sam had figured out that they weren't professionals or anything, that kidnapping probably wasn't their day job. They were too sloppy for that, too prone to discussions over pointless things like whether or not to let Sam use the bathroom, how to feed him, and other such things that Sam figured kidnappers, if they knew _anything_, should have really figured out before having their hostage tied to a chair.

When Sam had come to, he'd quelled his panic by going into full-on research mode. He'd taken solace in knowing Dean would call him his geekboy and count on him to figure the background crap out. And since Sam had been tied to a chair at the time, listening seemed like the only productive thing he could do.

And this is what he had figured out: these guys were brothers. They didn't say they were hunters, but they clearly knew his dad, and so far as Sam could know, the only people who knew his dad were people they'd met on hunts.

That would also explain why they were pissed all the time. His dad had that effect on people, and so when the bigger guy started taking swipes at him, the only plausible reason Sam could come up with was some kind of revenge.

Which, of course, had sucked for him, being tied to a chair and all.

Things had gotten hazy for a bit, probably those stupid head wounds that kept adding up, and when the fog had cleared enough for him to think again, all he could think about was getting the hell out.

He had never doubted his dad and Dean would come. He would just rather still have some brain left when they did.

His break had come when they untied him from the chair. They'd tossed him in some kind of room instead, with thick wood plank walls and no windows and a lock on the door that could stop just about anything. It had been cold there, and lonely, and he just wanted to sleep--

Sam's eyes snapped open again. Reminiscing wasn't going to keep him awake. He needed to move. Needed to keep going. At this point, where wasn't even as important as just _going_. True, moving around aimlessly would make it harder for his dad or Dean to find him if they even narrowed their search to these woods (they would, though, they _had_ to) but at this point, staying still was too much of a danger for himself. He needed to move slowly enough to mind his injuries--puncturing an internal organ at this point would be sure death.

But he needed to move. The ground was too cold and the need for sleep was too dangerously pervasive.

Groping around slowly, he found his way to his feet, where he wobbled. A wave of nausea almost took him down, but he swallowed hard against it. He hadn't gotten this far to give up now.

Squinting up at the sky, he looked for the sun shining between the barren tree branches. Sam had a pretty good sense of direction, but if this flight was going to get him anywhere, he needed to keep moving in _one _direction.

He couldn't be totally sure of the time--his watch had been broken in his haste to escape--but it was probably about midday, given the height of the sun.

Midday.

Thinking made his head hurt.

Scratch that, _breathing_ made his head hurt.

East.

He'd go east.

That way he'd know he'd gone too far if he ran into the ocean.

Sam took a lurching step, then steadied himself.

He could do this. He'd gotten out of the cabin, hadn't he? And he couldn't let a trip down a hill be the end of him. Not a trip down a hill, not two brothers looking for revenge, just--no. None of it.

His hurt arm still pulled close to his body, he took another step, and continued his flight.

-o-

Dean was dreaming.

Dean was dreaming about the market, about stocking the frozen foods. The frozen peas, the frozen pizzas, even ice cream and canned juice concentrate (on sale for 88 cents this week).

He was stocking and stocking and stocking until his fingers felt numb and his entire body ached. He stocked until his eyes watered and he just wanted to stop but he couldn't stop.

Nope, he couldn't stop because Taylor was there waving his hands above his head, saying, "We have to be _ready_. We just have to be _ready_ because we never know what's going to happen!"

And of course Miss Patty was there preening and Babette was there clutching at an orange saying, "Oh, just wait until East Side Tilly hears about this one, I tell you. It'll be the talk of the town!"

And Lorelai. Lorelai was there, laughing and drinking coffee and slapping Dean on the backside. "That a way to do it," she said. "Best damn stock boy in all of Stars Hollow. We can't lose you, no sir-ee."

Dean wanted to stop, wanted to tell her that he was too cold for this, that he hurt too much, but she was grinning that grin of hers. "You know, I had a dream once where I was kidnapped by giant lima beans. Which, really, is less of a dream and more of a nightmare. Because have you ever eaten a lima bean? Very not good. And apparently they're no better to be kidnapped by than to eat. Seriously, the entire time the lima beans kept singing and poured me in a pot and slathered butter all over me and tried to boil me. So just think, it can always get worse. Because at least you're not being buttered and boiled by a lima bean!"

Lorelai was making his head hurt and he sort of wanted to cry and everyone was _leaving_, they were walking out the door and leaving Dean there, and he didn't want to be alone, he didn't want to be there at all.

And Rory. Her reflection in the glass door. Smiling. He wanted to turn, to look at her, but he couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stock.

"It's a shame, Dean," she said. "But it's not your fault. I know that. You can't help it. But I'm a little bored, you see, of waiting. Tristan is waiting and so is Jess, and it has nothing to do with _you_. You're just nobody, kid. So don't think this is personal."

Dean opened his mouth to scream, to stop her, to stop _this_, and abruptly woke up.

He was panting, which hurt more than he thought it should, and it took a moment for him to get past the confusion and realize that he was cold. He was cold and stuck and achy and oh, God--

He wanted his nightmare back.

Because awake, he was still tied to the chair. Tied to a chair in some cabin. Only now it was hard to see out of either eye and his entire body throbbed with pain.

When he finally managed to keep his head in an upright position and squint through the better of his two eyes, he could see that he was in the same room as before. There was an assortment of open bags on the table, stained with grease, and Dean could make out McDonald's wrappers and the distinct smell of fast food.

Blinking again, he managed to turn his head enough to take in more of the room. It was nondescript overall, barren wood walls and simple, mismatched furniture. There was a table and a few chairs in front of him and to the side, a small kitchenette. The room was dusty from what he could tell, but not in disrepair. There was a door and some windows, but all were obscured with curtains and shut up tight to the outside world.

He tried to put the pieces together again. He'd been abducted, that much was still perfectly clear. Taken right off the streets of Stars Hollow. As for how long ago that was, Dean had no idea. But he liked to think they'd miss him by now. His parents. Rory. Taylor at the market. _Someone_.

Because he needed that much. He needed to believe that there was a chance someone might find him before these two lunatics had a chance to do whatever it was they were planning to do.

Which, coincidentally, had very little to do with _him_. That was the part his aching head was still having trouble parsing. They showed no indication that they knew who he was at all. All they did was talk about some other guy--some other guy and some other kid and how the original plan was spoiled and Dean was just a stand-in.

Oh and it wasn't personal with Dean. They were going to choke him in his own damn hometown, throw him in a car (which he didn't even _remember_), tie him to a chair and then proceed to beat the crap out of him. But it wasn't personal.

Well, Dean was sure as hell taking it personally, no matter what they said, not that he would ever have a chance to tell them since the gag was still biting into the corners of his mouth.

He tried to move but found the bonds as tight as he remembered. His fingers were numb now and his backside had a cramp that was shooting through his left leg at this point.

A camera. One of them had gone to get a camera. For what? To document this?

Of course to document it, Dean realized suddenly, feeling stupid for being this slow on the uptake. He was a stand-in for some other kid and the point wasn't just to use him as a punching bag. But to get back at some other guy. So pictures would be evidence, clues, something to draw the other guy here.

It sort of made sense, in a whacked-out, psychotic kind of way. Imagine the fun they would have with this story on Dateline. Over the top and ridiculous. Rory didn't even like Dateline, so maybe she'd never see it.

Problem was, the bad guys didn't want him. And whoever was supposedly coming didn't want him either. He was a nobody. Richard Gilmore was right in all the worst ways. After all, if someone kidnapped Rory, it would be because of who she was, because of the money to her name, because of what she was worth. Not just because she was a fair approximation of someone else.

Dean felt his throat constrict and the inevitable urge to cry. He'd read the papers with Rory. He'd seen the headlines on the nightly news with Charles Gibson. What was it they said? If a missing person wasn't found in 48 hours then the chances of finding them alive were slim?

How long had it been? A day? Two? More?

If he was no good as leverage, if he wasn't worth saving to whoever was supposed to save him, then was he going to die? Would they just beat him until there was nothing left of him? Leave him here to starve? Or do it quick? A shot to the head, stabbed in the heart? Would they leave him here to rot? Or bury him? Cut him up? Burn him? Would anyone ever find him--alive or dead?

The thoughts were coming quickly now, too quickly, and he hiccuped painfully against the gag as tears spilled over his bruised eyelids.

He didn't want to die. He really didn't want to die. He just wanted to get out of here, to go home, to see his parents and Clara and Rory and--

The door opened, throwing his thoughts off track.

It was hard to recognize the man at first, but after squinting, Dean saw that it was the smaller guy, the nicer one (and nicer was such a relative term): Ryan.

As the door shut behind the guy, Dean caught a glimpse of sun and trees. It was day now. Surely someone knew he was gone by now.

The guy was looking at him nervously, glancing at him over his shoulder while he absently collected the trash on the table. He shoved it in a can in the corner before turning back to Dean and running a hand over his mouth. "I imagine you got one hell of a headache."

Dean didn't know what to say to that even if he could talk.

The guy licked his lips, smiling a little. "We had to do it, though," he explained. "I mean, we couldn't let Winchester see that we'd lost his kid. If we did that, then we wouldn't have any leverage whatsoever. I don't see why you have to worry about much of anything. We've got nothing against you. Nothing at all. We just got to get Winchester here, then we'll--I mean, then we won't have to use you anymore."

If that was supposed to be reassuring, it failed miserably. Because what would happen to him when they didn't need him anymore? Would they really just let him go? Would it be that simple? Go missing for a few days, get beat up, and then be sent on his merry way?

This was just like a bad movie, a terrible movie, with bad acting and plot holes that Rory and Lorelai would tear to shreds and there weren't even any funny accents worth imitating. Except Dean was already pretty sure how this movie would ends--for him, anyway.

Ryan chewed a fingernail. "Anyway, you'll be okay for a bit yet. If this all takes too long, we'll think about feeding you and stuff. And the bathroom. You don't have to go to the bathroom, do you?"

Dean's bladder was really the least of his concerns.

Ryan laughed uncomfortably. "I'll bet this is kind of like when the dentist always asks questions with his hand in your mouth. He knows you can't answer, but he keeps yammering away. I'll have to be nicer to my dentist from here on out."

Dean didn't care about this guy's dentist. He didn't care about his own dentist. He just wanted to feel his fingers again, to take a full breath, to be _safe_.

The door opened again, this time with a resounding bang, and the other guy clomped inside.

Dean couldn't help the shiver that shook his body or the whimper that escaped his muted throat.

The guy glowered at Dean then at his brother. "Winchester's coming."

Ryan straightened, eyes wide. "He is? How can you be sure?"

The guy rolled his eyes, "How do you think, dimwit?" He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and threw it on the table. "He got the picture and then demanded his boy back, just like planned. I sent him the drop coordinates and told him this evening, right around dusk. That should give him time to come up with his great rescue plan and give us time to get ready to take him down."

Ryan cast another uncertain look at Dean before looking back at his brother. "What about him?" he asked, jerking his head toward Dean. The gesture was hardly reassuring. At this point, Dean would almost prefer having no attention paid to him. Neglect would be better than the _not personal_ treatment he'd been given so far,

"What is it with you and this kid?" the big guy muttered. "Still our leverage. You know one of them will come to the drop point. The other will come here for the kid, to make sure we don't double cross them because we all know we'd be idiots to show up with the kid. So one of us has to stay here and ambush the one who comes here. That way we make sure Winchester suffers good and proper."

"I thought we were just going to kill him," Ryan said. "You know, quick and easy."

The guy just shook his head clearly exasperated. "He didn't let Dad die quick and easy," he seethed. "You act like you don't really get it. Like you don't remember. Dad trusted Winchester, he trusted that son of a bitch to have his back. And what did Winchester do? Winchester left him out to dry and while Dad was getting ripped alive by those damn spirits, Winchester was laying a ring of salt for _himself_. Winchester didn't give a damn about Dad or about us. That's what this is about."

Dean's eyes darted between the brothers, trying to make sense of that. Rings of salt, ripped alive, spirit. None of that computed, and Dean was pretty sure it wasn't his lack of a Chilton education that was the problem. No, these two were crazy. They were simply out of their minds. And worse, they were bent on revenge. Insane and vengeful and it wasn't personal with Dean.

Ryan's jaw clenched and he looked pale. "Just Winchester," he said. "You promised me that. We got nothing on the kids."

The guy laughed mirthlessly. "And what exactly do you think happened to the Winchester kid?"

"What?"

"What do you think happened to him? Do you really think I was keen on just letting him get away, run around in the woods until he finds the road?"

"Well, I--"

"The kid's dead, Ry-no," he said. "You saw the trail of blood he left. You know how cold it is outside. Hell, you know how hard it is to find this place at all and that it's _miles_ from anything. Even if that kid survived the night, he'll be down with hypothermia or blood loss before he can clear three miles of this place. Why the hell do you think I didn't go after him? If I thought he could survive that, I'd know he'd spoil everything."

Ryan looked truly horrified at the thought, but Dean had to admit, it wasn't making him feel much better. If the Winchester kid was dead, if the kid who he was replacing was gone and dead and they didn't care about him at all, then what hope was there for him? Miles from anyone. In the woods. Tied up and beat up and achy and scared and Dean was probably going to die here.

"This isn't what I agreed to, Kenny," Ryan said. "I agreed to revenge on Winchester, plain and simple. I was willing to use his kids to help get back at him, but they were never part of the plan beyond that."

"No, little brother, you agreed to get back at Winchester at _any_ cost. Well, this is the cost," Kenny said, pointing so roughly at Dean that Dean actually flinched. "We'll get Winchester where it hurts most. We'll take his kids from him, let him know he failed his precious little Sammy and make him watch as we kill Dean, too. Then and only then will he know what we went through. And then we'll kill him."

Dean was crying by that point, he couldn't even try to stop himself. His entire body was shaking, trembling uncontrollably. He wanted to go back to sleep. He really wanted to go back to sleep. Unconsciousness, sleeping, _anything_.

This was worse than trying to stock to Taylor's standards. This was worse than being degraded by Richard Gilmore. This was worse than seeing Rory talk to Jess. This was worse than babysitting Clara and have her watch the Lion King for the fiftieth time in a row. It was worse than anything and everything and no one was going to find him here. No one. Just some _Winchester _who wasn't even really looking for _him_.

His vision blurred and he felt himself losing control.

Not that he could do much about that. Even his ability to panic had been taken from him with the tight bonds and effective gag.

"--you're scaring him," Ryan seemed to be saying, but the voice sounded distant.

"Yeah, and that's high on my list of concerns right now," Kenny said. "At least the damn Winchester kid had the presence of mind to keep his crap together."

"Well, that kid at least knows about this stuff. Knowing damn John Winchester, he trains those boys like nothing else. This kid doesn't even know what we're talking about. All he knows is that we're talking about killing people and he's tied to a chair and that'd scare anybody."

"And maybe it should," Kenny said nonchalantly.

Someone was touching him, a light hand on his shoulder. "Hey, take it easy, okay? You don't want to breathe too quickly with the gag in."

And that was just great advice. About how not to hyperventilate when you've got a gag in your mouth. Yeah, that was exactly the comfort Dean needed.

The very thought of the gag and breathing and hyperventilation suddenly made it worse and his chest began to burn with need and exertion.

"Crap, he _is _hyperventilating."

"Oh for goodness sakes," Kenny's voice came closer now. Another hand roughly grabbed his shoulder, shaking it good. "Shut the hell up, kid."

As if Ryan's attempts to soothe him had done any good, Kenny's threats certainly weren't doing anything for his oxygen deprived brain. He was going to die anyway, so what did it matter? It wasn't personal and he wasn't anything to them and Dean didn't have to be a genius to figure out that two plus two equaled four and that he was just plain _screwed_.

"I don't have time for this," Kenny muttered.

"Crap, Ken, don't--"

Dean barely even felt the punch this time that took him to blessed oblivion.

-o-

It wasn't hard to find his dad.

No, his father was the only other sane person in that God forsaken little town. And _that _was saying something.

His father looked sorely out of place, perched on a bench in the town square, his face drawn and tight, shoulders hunched over, the rigidity of his body evident even under the sturdy jacket. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Dean made his way across the street toward his father, hoping like hell that his dad had some kind of good news to share.

"You find anything?" Dean asked as he approached.

His father barely moved. Didn't even look up to meet Dean's eyes. "Sam's been kidnapped."

It was said so plaintively that Dean wondered if he'd imagined it. Stopping short of his father, Dean just looked at him. "He what?"

His dad finally turned his eyes to him, his face grim. "Sam's been kidnapped."

"They tell you that at the police station?"

"No, they didn't know anything," his father said. "But the kidnappers--they sent me a message."

That news buckled Dean and he sunk next to his father on the bench. "What kind of message?"

His dad pulled the cell phone from his pocket and held it out to Dean. Taking it, Dean felt his heart fluttered as he looked at the small screen.

The picture clarity was bad, and the snapshot was small and blurry, but it was good enough.

It was Sam, tied to a chair. And if that wasn't bad enough, the kid was unconscious, head lolled forward, the mop of hair disheveled on his head. But it was Sam. The hair. The long build. The curve of his nose, the set of his lips.

"They sent coordinates, too," his father continued. "Told me to get my ass there tonight and then they'd tell me where Sam was."

Those were answers. Hell, they were the answers they'd been looking for over the last _two days_. But now that Dean had them, he sort of wished he didn't.

Just like that, Dean's fear turned to anger. "Who has him?"

"They won't say," his father replied, taking the phone back. "But, I figure this is personal. They're not asking for money, not that we have any to give them. Whoever took Sam, they took him because of me. Because of _us_."

"Hell, Dad, you pissed anyone off lately that I don't know about?" Because it wouldn't surprise Dean if he had.

His dad took a measured breath, pocketing the phone. "Maybe the family of a victim we couldn't save. The hunt in Detroit was pretty messy."

"But how would they find us way out here? With the string of aliases we've been using?"

"I know," his father agreed. "I think they're hunters."

"That would explain how they tracked us," Dean said. "And how they got the drop on Sam."

And that was a thought Dean didn't relish. Knowing that Sam was gone was one thing; knowing that he'd been abducted--well, that took things to a whole new level of pissed off for him. Nobody--_nobody_--laid a hand on his kid brother and got away with it.

"Bobby's not too fond of me at the moment, but he would never take it out on you two. Any of the others would have done something sooner, even if they were inclined this way."

"What about Tallahassee?"

John just nodded. "That's my best guess."

Dean swore, dropping his head into his hands while he tried to make sense of it. "I told you I should go with you on that one," he said, raising his head again. "You needed back up."

"I _had_ backup," John countered. "Jeremiah was my backup."

"Yeah, well, Jeremiah ended up dead which is how we got in this mess."

His father sighed, his face flashing with anger before resolving wearily. "There was nothing I could have done. We'd counted on the three spirits, that's why we went in together. No matter how many years you've been doing this kind of thing, a job like that, with a death count like it had, you don't do it alone. Jeremiah knew the plan. We did as much prep work as we could in advance but when push came to shove, one of us had to cover the other."

"You said Jeremiah was too slow," Dean ventured, trying to recount the stories of that hunt. He'd been angry at the time--angry that he hadn't been allowed to go. He was twenty now, and been hunting full-time since he graduated high school. He was used to being his dad's right hand man, to training Sammy. To be denied to go on a hunt--well, it was needless to say that sometimes Dean wasn't above a little petulance.

His father raised his eyebrows impassively. "We had to stick to the plan. I offered to play bait; Jeremiah refused. Damn bastard that he was, wanted to prove he wasn't too old to keep a spirit guessing."

Dean swore again. "He was wrong, wasn't he?"

"I stuck to the plan. That's how we get hunts done. Let him deal with the spirits, I had to finish the bones. By the time I was finished, it was too late."

Dean didn't need to know the details. He'd done enough legwork on hunts to know what _too late _implied. It was gory, but it was true. Hunting was dangerous. People died in this kind of gig, and Dean had never taken that for granted. Hell…that was part of the thrill.

His father hadn't said much about Tallahassee when it happened. Had glossed over the facts, called him to tell him he'd be a few days late to deal with the loose ends.

The loose ends of Jeremiah's body going home to his boys.

"So you think it's his kids?" Dean asked, almost incredulous. He understood being pissed. Really, he did. After all, he'd watched his father for the last sixteen years make a life based on being pissed. Wanting revenge. But on the supernatural. That was why the hunting. To get back at what had hurt them. They killed things that deserved to die, evil things--not humans. Not for accidents.

"Only met them the once, but Jeremiah said they were hunters, but still new at the whole thing. They didn't take the death so well."

That was an understatement that made Dean want to kick over a trash can or rip the stupid white lights off the damned friendly looking gazebo. "So they _took Sammy_?" Dean asked, trying to wrap his mind around it. Trying to make some freakin' sense of kidnapping his brother because of an _accident_. A hunting accident.

"This is about me," John said tightly. He turned his steely eyes to Dean. "They're using Sam to get to me. It has nothing to do with Sammy, it has nothing to do with you. If there's one thing I understand, it's revenge. And I understand what some people are willing to sacrifice to get it."

The tone of his father's voice, the iciness of his eyes--it was heavy stuff, even for his father. But Dean got why. Dean understood. He had seen the picture. He'd seen Sammy's head hanging forward, the way the ropes cut tightly into his brother's frame.

A surge of anger welled within Dean that made him not just understand his father, but agree with him. Dean wasn't so big into revenge, not like his dad was. But this was Sammy they were talking about. Sammy who had been kidnapped. No matter how screwed up these two hunters were over their father's death, they would see nothing like the wrath of the Winchesters. There were few things sacred in Dean's life. Protecting Sammy, though, was one of them. Maybe the only one.

"How are we going to do this?" Dean asked, the fear and speculating gone from his mind. There was only one thing that mattered now: getting Sam _back_.

"They've given us a drop point and a time."

"So we'll be there with more ammo than we know what to do with?"

His father actually laughed a little at that. "Not quite."

Dean's brow furrowed. "Huh--?"

"You think we're going to walk in blindly to a meeting that's only purpose is to kill me--hell, maybe all three of us?"

Dean should have thought of that. His eyes narrowed. "So what then?"

His father pushed to his feet. "The meeting is at five. We're going to need every second we can."

That wasn't really the answer Dean had been looking for, or at least not all of the answer. His father's cryptic behavior made for persuasive negotiations, but was hell when there was something important Dean really wanted to know.

Suddenly, just for a moment, Dean's determined facade wavered. "Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"We'll get him back, right?" he asked.

The coldness in his father's eyes melted, just for a second. "Yeah, Dean. We'll get him back."

For now, that was all Dean needed to hear.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This one is more transitional in nature, but I promise, the action will pick up a bit more in the next chapter. Continued thanks to Tyranusfan for the beta and sendintheclowns for helping motivate me and all of you who are reading and reviewing. Other notes and disclaimers in chapter one.

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CHAPTER THREE

Going east sucked.

Sure, going west probably wouldn't have been much better. Neither would north or south or any variation thereof. But east--east just _sucked_.

The ground was uneven and the air was cold. The trees all looked the same, barren and monotonous and the forest just _never ended_. No matter how far he walked, how fast he walked, how slow he walked--it never ended. Tree after tree after tree with an occasional log or shrub to vary it up.

It was all giving Sam a headache.

Well, okay, maybe the concussion was giving Sam a headache. His head had been hurting, after all, since he'd woken up in the cabin and his memory was still hit and miss. Of course, the headache had been the least of his concerns at the time. He'd been so preoccupied with the fact that he was trussed up and thoroughly gagged to really worry about the head injury. His mind had been focused on one thing: escape.

His father had pissed someone off, and now they were out to get him back. What better way to get John Winchester's attention than the pounce on the people he cared for most?

Apparently word hadn't gotten out amongst John's so-called friends that Sam wasn't exactly on the best of terms with his father.

But it didn't matter, that much was true. John Winchester was stubborn in all ways, including his loyalty and his fierce protective qualities. For all that Sam butted heads with his father, no one would fight harder to protect him than his dad.

Though Dean would always give him a run for the money.

The two idiots who had taken him had been smart enough to not engage him in pointless conversation, Sam had to give them that. They also hadn't fallen victim to the stupidest move in the book and hashed their entire master plan to Sam in some diabolical monologue. At least not that Sam could remember at the moment, but he had to admit, he was missing more than a little time.

The beatings, however, Sam remembered with crystal clear detail, and they told Sam enough. They'd kicked Sam around some, scowled at him and swore at him a little, then argued amongst themselves before tossing Sam in a room.

That had been their first mistake.

Well, their second, anyway. Their first was to screw with the Winchesters at all. Sam knew, without a doubt, his dad would come. His dad would come and he almost felt sorry for these two knowing what would await them then.

It was not Sam's intention, however, to play damsel in distress and wait around to like a nice little victim. He wasn't going to let them tie him up, beat him, and use him to try to trap anyone, much less his father or his brother. More than that, he wasn't going to let these two have a chance at killing him. Nope, Sam had set his sights on escaping.

Those idiots probably thought he was a run of the mill sixteen-year-old. Most days, Sam would have liked that. But when push came to shove, he was as Winchester as his father wanted him to be.

At least he could pull it off when needed. For an audience of idiots, he'd do what he could. Out here was a different story.

Out here, there was nothing but _trees_ and it was so damn _cold_. The sunlight was falling now, sinking toward the horizon, and Sam knew it was only a matter of time until it got a whole lot worse. He needed to find some place to hunker down, some semblance of civilization--he didn't think he could do another night out here.

His foot caught on something and he stumbled, catching himself with his hands as he hit the ground. Fresh shock waves of pain rippled through his injured arm, which collapsed under him. His face hit the ground and he curled into himself.

So maybe his escape plan had been a little sloppy. It wasn't like he'd had much to work with.

They'd retied his wrists and feet, but foregone the chair when they left him in the room, presumably to sleep, Sam figured, and probably to actually allow them time to figure out what the heck they were doing. The room had been empty save for a pillow and a sheet, neither of which were overly helpful, but Sam hadn't needed help getting out of the ropes.

It was a sadistic little game he and Dean liked to play, but growing up in motel rooms and rundown apartments or abandoned farmhouses didn't afford much in the way of entertainment. So they'd made an art of getting out of things and they'd spent more summers tied up than Sam wanted to remember. Dean was better at it, no doubt, because Sam was convinced his older brother was double jointed or something equally unfair.

But Sam knew his way out of a simple rope knot. It just took some work.

He'd shifted and pulled and when all was said and done, he'd been rope burned but very free.

The rope burns were the least of his concerns now, and he could barely feel the chaffed skin at all in the cold, which he knew probably wasn't the best of signs, but at this point, he couldn't bring himself to care. He couldn't care about much of anything, not about the bleeding that had started up again or the wrist that was swelling despite the cold or the pounding of his head or how tired he was of going east, just tired....

He startled awake.

He hadn't come this far to fall asleep and die now.

Hell, no. He hadn't begged to use the bathroom, jumped the first guy and knocked him clean out, hadn't made a mad dash through a window, run two miles, fallen down a hill just to roll over and die _now_.

He had to think. He just had to think. To figure out what he was doing. Because maybe going east wasn't his best bet after all.

Given his current state, he wasn't sure how much longer he would actually be able to keep moving. His ability to push the pain aside was waning quickly, and the very act of lifting his feet was apparently getting much less of a given.

What would Dean do? He had to think like Dean. Dean could get out of just about anything. Dean could con his way into any bar, fake ID or not, and he could even get bartenders to hand Sam a beer with a smile.

He pushed onto his back, blinking up at the sun. Dean wouldn't be lying here like some kind of beaten down wuss. Dean wouldn't even be trying to get away. He'd be trying to get these two idiots. Not to hurt them, but to show them who's boss. To not let them get away with screwing with a Winchester.

His father would, too. Tactically speaking, it was the only thing that made sense. Because they were still out there. For all Sam knew, they were still looking for him. And they had to know these woods better than he did, which gave them the advantage. Not to mention the fact that they weren't hurt and freezing and just so very tired...

A bout of nausea hit him and he rolled to his side with a groan, unable to quell his rebelling stomach.

When he was done, he rolled back to his back, heaving for air.

He had to do _something_. This aimless flight wasn't getting him anywhere but _east_, for all the good that was doing him. And something was wrong about this, something he was supposed to remember. He was forgetting...

His best bet was going back. If he could get back to the cabin, he'd be able to see what was going on. Better yet, he might be able to find some means of communication. And it made sense: if his father and Dean were coming, their first stop would be the cabin, right? Sam needed to be close if he was going to get found. And he really wanted to be found.

Hell, if he was feeling better when he got there, he could even think about staging some kind of coup.

First things first, getting back to the cabin.

Pushing to a sitting position, he tried to get his bearings. So he'd been going east...that meant it was time to start heading west.

With a resolved breath, Sam worked his way to his feet. West couldn't be any worse than east.

Or so Sam could only hope.

-o-

This time it was a cough that woke him.

The tickle started innocently, right in the back of his dried out throat, but it rippled as it grew, reaching through his entire body with its intensity.

Desperate, Dean sucked in hard for air that never made it to his lungs, never even cleared his mouth,

The gag, he thought dimly. He couldn't get air past the gag fast enough to compensate for the oxygen-sucking hack.

As if that wasn't enough, the movement jarred him, pulling at his numbed hands and feet, which protested in muted pain.

Then the pounding of his head kicked in with full force.

Worse than before, much worse, practically blinding. The flashes of light and color he finally did make sense of turned his stomach violently, and Dean wondered briefly if he was going to throw up.

Better yet, maybe he would just pass out again. Preferably without another head injury this time.

Dean liked to think of himself as a strong guy. He really did. Not super macho by any stretch of the imagination but he was a guy's guy. He may read Jane Austen for Rory, but he still liked to watch sports on the weekends and had an unhealthy attraction to all things mechanical. He felt clean when he was drenched with grease from working under the hood of his latest project and there was nothing quite like sliding into home plate.

And he didn't take crap from people, either. Not from little rich boys who thought they could hit on his girl, not from smart-aleck punks who thought they knew everything. Dean could even be a bit prone to fight, at least in theory, but there was also some kind of decorum that held him back. Rory asking him not to, his mother's innate sense of proper behavior, just _things_.

All of that was gone. All of his reasons not to fight were replaced with the numbing fear that even if he did fight, it wouldn't get him anywhere. It was emasculating, sure, but that wasn't even what bothered Dean the most. No, what bothered Dean was the painful inevitability of it.

He kept trying to rationalize the situation, to cling to some kind of idiotic hope that the fact that this wasn't personal meant that he might make it out of here alive, like Ryan seemed to want him to believe.

But Kenny was different. Kenny didn't couch the whole thing in misleading promises, no matter how optimistic Ryan liked to be. Kenny was just about upfront with things, and Dean was pretty sure that those uppercuts weren't beacons of hope.

They were nails in his coffin.

This wasn't personal, so he was going to die here.

Took all the manliness right out of him and he felt like a little boy again. Defenseless and scared and needing someone to make it all better.

Because he really, really, _really_ did _not_ want to die. At all. He wanted to go to school, see his friends. He wanted to tease Clara and watch her ride horseback. He wanted to talk cars with his dad and reach the sugar on the top shelf in the kitchen for his mom. He wanted to lace up for hockey and take a swing at a softball. He wanted to drink a cup of coffee and watch Rory's face light up.

He missed all of it. He even missed his homework and Taylor and getting groped by Miss Patty while he stocked fruit.

But none of that was here. Not even Kirk and his insane antics. Just Dean in a chair with his eyes so swollen that he could barely see.

When his eyes finally did focus, he almost wished they hadn't.

Kenny was there, seated at the table. It took a minute longer, but Dean realized the older man was grinning at him.

"You look pretty banged up, kid," he said.

Dean figured that was an understatement.

"It's almost over, if that's any consolation," Kenny continued. "Ry-no's off to the drop point. I figure that's where Winchester'll be. He's a real ass, just so you know. None of this is in vain or totally misplaced."

There was no response to give to that, gag or no gag.

Kenny tipped back his chair, his grin widening. "He'll send the other boy of his here," he explained. "Which is why you're still so important. Those Winchesters are a funny lot."

Like Kenny and his brother weren't.

"Loyal to a fault. And blindly confident in their own ability to think things through. They think they've got us all figured out. But they took advantage of our dad. They're not going to take advantage of us. We already took care of the first one, and now we'll get the second two. We just need you long enough to make them realize just how much they screwed up."

And that was supposed to be logical. Kenny said it like it made so much sense, like there were no other options, like that was what anyone would have done. Like anyone would plot revenge against a family and okay, maybe Dean could buy that. Maybe. In some warped view of the world, some kind of eye for an eye mentality that extremists like to adhere to. But Dean was tied to a chair. Tied to a chair and beaten and tired and sick and this guy wanted him to believe that it was all logical?

Kenny shrugged, apparently indifferent or oblivious to the incredulity on Dean's weary face. "Ryan's soft. He never had the same drive like me and Dad did. That's why he's just got to bring Winchester here. I don't think he'd have it in him to do what's necessary."

The fact that Kenny apparently did was not a consolation.

"You should be glad for that, kid," Kenny told him. "I won't prolong the inevitable any more than I have to."

The man pulled out a gun from his waistband, and raised his eyebrows at Dean.

"So you just rest easy, kiddo," he said. "And it'll all be over soon."

Dean couldn't help it. He didn't care about the futility of it. Hands numb, head aching, he thrashed against the bonds and screamed, inarticulate and desperate, against the gag.

Kenny just shook his head and waited for him to finish. "That's the first good fight you've given us since you woke up here," he said. "I was beginning to wonder about you."

Dean hated to prove any kind of point to this guy, to give him any kind of satisfaction, but it was just too much. He screamed again, curses and pleas and bargains and anything and everything his mind could think of.

Kenny chuckled. "And here I thought you'd be the boring one to watch," he said. "Looks like I was wrong."

And Dean screamed again.

-o-

Dean knew the type. The gray beard and ridiculous button-up sweater over that gut were stereotypical for a small town lifer with an over-inflated view of just about everything. And that frantic look in his eyes and the excessive hand motions? Control freak in the extreme, but one who probably knew his crap. Guys like that always did. Worse than the little old ladies with their gossip, that type.

Any other day, messing with guy might be funny. Entertaining, even. But today, Dean wasn't sure his heart was in it.

But everyone in town said that the person to talk to about the people who owned the local property was Taylor Doose. The person who knew the latest visitors who had set up residence was Taylor Doose. The person who knew anything and everything about this piss poor small town: Taylor Doose.

Of Doose's Market, no less. Egotistical to boot. Fan-freakin-tastic.

With a sigh, Dean collected himself and went inside. Now that they had coordinates and a good idea who they were dealing with, they had to figure out where they were holed up, just how serious they were, and the best way to preempt their plans. His dad had taken to city records to look for nearby properties Jeremiah's kids could be squatting on. Dean's task was to rustle up any info he could from the locals about two visitors in town.

Which meant, unfortunately for Dean, talking to Taylor Doose: the anal Mr. Roger's wannabe himself.

It was pretty nice for a small town market, he had to give it that. Small but complete and Dean even eyed a decent selection of booze that might be appealing where he not on a mission.

The guy was at the back of the market, hands of his head as he yelled, "You can't stock it like _that_!" he screeched. "No, no, no! You're doing it _all wrong_. The sugar goes on the _top_. If you put it there, everyone will confuse it with the _flour_. Don't you see how similar the packaging is? I tried to call and have them change it but they said it was ridiculous but I think it's ridiculous that people might confuse the two. Like little old Mrs. Carrington. That woman's almost blind as a bat, but so _loyal _and I can't have her buying sugar when she wants flour, now, can I?"

The kid he was talking to looked perplexed, brow furrowed. "I was trying--"

"Well, stop trying," Taylor continued. "I know it's harder to reach the top, but _Dean_ can do it just fine."

The kid was rolling his eyes when Dean sauntered up, reaching purposefully between them. "Hey, sugar," he said. "Just what I was looking for."

Taylor straightened, offering the kid a knowing glare. "Well then I'm glad you were able to _find_ it in all this mess."

"You sure are a guy who knows his stuff," Dean offered.

Taylor straightened, preening a little. "I do take pride in my work," he said. "Best organized market in all of Connecticut, maybe all of the east coast."

"I believe it," Dean said. Then he paused, studying the man for full effect. "Are you Taylor Doose? _The_ Taylor Doose?"

Dean really knew this type, and he knew that a little ego-stroking could go a long, long way.

"Well," the man said. clearly flattered. "That is my name."

"Great!" Dean said. Then he deftly stepped closer, edging Taylor away from his employee and the customers in the market. "I was hoping you could give me a little help."

"It is a goal of mine to be helpful to everyone I meet," Taylor said. "Part of the charm of small towns is the way that people will bend over backwards for one another. Even in this 21st century, I don't want to lose sight of that."

"Which is exactly why I love small towns like this--for people like you."

"Well, it's so refreshing to have someone recognize that," Taylor exclaimed. "There are too many in this town who take things like that for granted, or who overlook it altogether. I keep telling them that actions matter, that good will toward one another is what makes towns like us stay alive and prosper!"

"I know _exactly_ what you mean," Dean said. "Which is why I was looking for you. I figure, if anyone was going to take the time and have the decency to help me, it'd be Taylor Doose."

The man was positively glowing. "Well, well, please tell me, young man," Taylor said. "What is it I can do for you?"

"I'll tell you," Dean began, "I've got these two buddies who have been vacationing in these parts. Sort of taking a road trip, just the two of them. Only they haven't been great at keeping in touch with people."

"Seems to be a common problem these days," Taylor muttered. "Did you know my best stock boy just up and never showed up for work this morning? No call, nothing! You'd think he'd at least have the decency to call."

"Exactly. My friends, they're the same way. You know, not answering their phone, not telling people where they're staying. And, here's the sad part, their grandmother, bless her soul, is _very _sick. They want to get the entire family there, but no one can find these two. So I was wondering if you'd seen them. I mean, guy like you, with his fingers on the pulse of the town, I figured you'd know if there were some strangers in town."

Taylor's brow creased thoughtfully. "We get quite the influx of tourists this time of year," he said. "Can you tell me a little more about your friends?"

"Yeah," Dean readily agreed. "They're upper twenties, sort of scruffy looking. I mean, this road trip they're on isn't fancy by any stretch of the imagination. I imagine they'd be looking for simple fixes and even simpler accommodations. They're the rustic type, you know? Camping, eating out of tins cans, that kind of thing."

Taylor looked a bit concerned by the description, but his ego was so soothed that he didn't even hesitate with the fact that Dean was essentially describing drifters, the sort Dean was certain this meticulous man wouldn't want _near_ his precious town. "Well, now that you mention that, I did notice two gentlemen that fit that description," he ventured. "I try to take great notice in all our visitors, to sort gauge what kind of people choose our quaint little town for a vacation spot. We pick up a lot of antiquers, which I think is fantastic, even some upscale ones which only help infuse the local economy, but these two that you're talking about, not quite as common. Sure we pick up some occasional rugged types on their way to Hartford or the coast, and we do have some great forest land around here, but very little hunting. Most of the land is privately owned, which I think is the problem. I've tried to talk in some local holders to give up their land to make it public property so we could use it for the greater good, but they're just not interested!"

Dean had the sudden urge to punch the man, or at the very least, shove him into the shelves and see what kind of mess his pudgy body would make of the fastidiously stocked shelves, and it occurred to him faintly that anyone who actually lived in this sickeningly sweet little community surely had to just cringe every time they came near the guy. It must have been the only market in town or it would surely be out of business due to him. Hell, Dean had only been here five minutes and he was pretty sure he'd rather drive an extra thirty minutes rather than face a chance encounter.

But he still needed the guy. Finding _Sam _might depend on it.

That was worth the headache. But Sammy would _so _owe him.

Quelling the urge for violence, forced a smile, and asked, "People these days, just not focused on the big picture," he said. "But you said that you may have seen them? My friends? I would hate to have to go back home and tell their grandmother that I couldn't find them. She'd just be heartbroken."

"Oh, oh, yes," Taylor said quickly. "A few days ago two gentlemen of that nature came into the store. Sort of twitchy types, which is why I remember. Always have to watch the twitchy ones. They were real quiet, sort of introverted, talked quietly amongst themselves. Bought quite a load of food if I remember--in fact, I had to go have one of the boys break open a whole new box of canned peaches to make up for the amount these two took. Wherever they were staying, they were clearly stocking up."

Okay, now _that_ was information Dean wanted. Information that made all the other mind-numbing chatter worthwhile.

"Well, like I said, they like to do things themselves. Which makes me wonder where they might stay."

"We do have a fine selection of inns in town," Taylor said, puffing his chest up. "Some gorgeous properties, and may I recommend the Independence Inn--beautiful lot, fantastic rooms. The service can be a little iffy from time to time, but the accommodations are well worth it."

"I'm not sure these two would have the money for something like that," Dean said. "They like things out of the way, obscure."

Taylor frowned. "Well, there is a campsite outside of town, but beyond that, there's not much. Sure, you can find some homes in the woods from time to time, but they're all owned by locals and probably only inhabited part of the year."

Dean tried not to suppress his satisfaction. It was clicking, falling into place. The amount of food, the woods, homes in the woods only lived in part of the year.

Of course, Dean had no way of being certain, but he could be pretty damn sure. His instincts were good under most circumstances and with this kind of thing, he had an advantage. These two were hunters, maybe stupid hunters, messing with Winchesters after all, but he knew how hunters thought. He knew that stocking up meant staying put. He knew that the best place to stay was a free place to stay. And he knew that if you wanted to get away with something, you didn't leave a paper trail. That meant no registration, no motels, no credits cards. Even stolen accounts could be pretty easy to trace.

Nope, these two freaks had swiped Sam and holed him up in the woods and would probably try to lay low there until the entire situation was clear. That was where they had to strike.

"You know," Dean said, clapping Taylor on the shoulder. "That's very helpful."

Taylor looked perplexed. "But you still don't know where they are."

"You've been very helpful," Dean said, ignoring the man's question. "I can't thank you enough. And great town you got here. I'll be sure to tell _all_ my friends. Antiques--can't go wrong with those antiques."

He was out the door before Taylor Doose had a chance to respond.

Being on the street was a momentary relief. The act of being happy, of working Taylor over for information, it could be fun on some days, but today the entire thing was just wearing. Because each second he wasted chatting up the old dude, was another minute that Sam was _missing_.

What kind of big brother was he, talking up the locals when Sam had been kidnapped? It was necessary perhaps, but it felt like crap doing it.

Everything felt like crap with Sam missing. Life was crap, breathing was crap, it was just plain _crap_. Sure, Sam could be a petulant bitch sometimes, but damn it all, Sam was _his_ petulant bitch. Life wasn't the same without the kid. Things didn't mean as much, _Dean _didn't mean as much.

"You look tense," his father said, breaking his thoughts.

Dean blinked, looking to the side where his father was leaned against a storefront. With a sigh, Dean continued. "They've stocked up," he said, ignoring his father's comment. "Sounds like they've got enough to last them awhile."

"Found a place about five miles from the coordinates," his father said.

"In the woods, I bet," Dean said. "Someplace rural, owned by a local but only lived in part of the year."

"A cabin," his father confirmed. "Well off the beaten path. Hard to find, would be exactly their MO."

"Not overly clever."

"But easy enough to set up base there," his father continued. "These two are hunters, not trained kidnappers. Hunters do what they do. They find an out of the way location, a place to avoid identification or suspicion. Besides, it was Jeremiah's way. The man wasn't big into credit card scams. Much more likely to squat than rent if he could help it."

"And what better place to hide a kidnapped teenager?"

"Exactly."

"So, what are we waiting for? Let's load up, stock up on ammo, and bust in there with guns blazing."

His father's face barely registered the plan. "We have to think, Dean," his father said instead. "We need to be careful how we go about this and make sure we get Sam out without giving them any chance at getting away. If we try to barge in early, chances are they'll be ready for us."

"So, what then? The drop site's going to be just as much of an ambush."

"Of course it is," his father agreed, burrowing his hands into his pockets. "This is about leverage, trying to gain the advantage. They don't care about Sam and they sure as hell don't care about negotiating his freedom. They just don't want to let _me _go."

"So we need to find Sam and get rid of their leverage."

His father gave an approving nod. "That's why I don't think they'll bring Sam. If they have Sam, then nothing's going to stop me from kicking both their asses and killing them on the spot to get my boy back."

His father said it so matter of fact, so clear and to the point, that it was almost easy to forget that they were talking about people. That they were talking about humans, two brothers.

Dean had always know his father was one tough son of a bitch, but the solidarity and cold focus of the man right then was almost chilling.

But Dean knew why. Because of Sam. Because despite all the flak between his dad and his kid brother, this was family and _nothing _touched family.

"So we split up?"

"You take the cabin, spring Sam. I'll go to the exchange. Once you have Sam and the cabin secure, you call me and all negotiations stop."

Getting Sam out was exactly what he'd been wanting all along. And the thought of anyone, even some lame ass kid of a hunter, standing in his way--well, it wasn't a thought at all. Dean would do what he had to do. Always had. Always would. Dean didn't kill people, but the highest level of Winchester morality was to protect their own.

"You sure we shouldn't go together?" Dean asked. "We already know where the cabin is, so we can find Sam after the fact, and you might need the back up. With two of them there, the odds aren't in your favor."

His father didn't even look at him, didn't even flinch. "Unless Sam's not at the cabin, then we'd need a new game plan altogether. Besides, we have to plan for the possibility that one of them stays back at the cabin. We can't risk Sam that way," he said. Then he licked his lips. "And I won't need the back up."

Dean knew he should push, should try to force for a more substantive reason why splitting up would be the best course of action, but he couldn't. His father had always protected them--_always_. That wouldn't stop now. His father didn't know how _not_ to.

That was what Sammy never quite got. That their father, gruff bastard that he could be, was the toughest, scariest hunter around. No one could track like him. No one had his focus, his resolve, his damn near inhuman ability to separate himself from things when deep down, it was so much more than personal.

That was what made his dad a friggin' superhero. Because John Winchester didn't fail.

And neither would Dean.

"So where is this cabin I'm supposed to find Sam?"

At that, a smile spread slowly over his father's face. There was something of pride, something of certainty and trust that reaffirmed Dean more than anything else could. "I'll show you in the car."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: So I know the last chapters was not the most exciting, but the action definitely steps it up a notch here as some of the crap hits the proverbial fan. Continued thanks to Tyranusfan, sendintheclowns, and those reading and reviewing.

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CHAPTER FOUR

West wasn't any better.

The rutted ground still rose and fell beneath his numb feet and the sharp chill of the air only intensified as the sun descended. The woods looked bleaker, somehow, the farther he went. Bleaker and colder and if he never saw another tree, he'd be so happy.

Sam supposed the bright side was that he was cold enough that he couldn't really feel the pain anymore. Sure, it hurt, but all the pain was blurring together. His head and his arm and his wrist and his ankle--when did he hurt his ankle again?

He couldn't remember. In fact, his mind was blinking in and out, and for terrifying seconds he forgot where he was altogether.

Running west. He was running west. Running back to the cabin. The cabin where he'd been taken. Where he'd been held hostage.

Revenge. They wanted revenge. That was just good deduction skills. They'd said it. They'd said that and a whole lot more.

"_Watch it, kid. This isn't about you necessarily, but that can work for you or against you."_

"_Crap, but you don't have hit him, do you?"_

"_This is about Winchester. John damn-them-all-to-hell Winchester."_

"_But the kid, Kenny, you don't have to hurt the kid."_

"_Winchester's as good as dead anyway, so long as I get that, I don't care about the kid."_

The memory came so suddenly that his breath caught in his throat. With a sudden need for air, he panicked, stumbling as he grappled for something to prop himself up.

"_You act like we're not doing something wrong. We kidnapped him, Ry-no. Kidnapping. You do realize that's illegal, don't you? A felony?"_

"_But murder--murder's different."_

"_He has it coming to him. And we'll use his own son to get him here."_

That was the conversation he'd heard, the last one. Why he'd run away. It was why he was running back.

"_Won't he see through it?"_

"_Maybe. But that'll be his last mistake. He'll underestimate us, he'll think he can use the other boy and get the drop on us, which is exactly how we'll get the drop on them. Because we're not idiots, Ry-no. And we're going to win this one."_

Sam swore, panting through the ache in his chest that threatened to suffocate him.

That was it--that sinking feeling, what he couldn't remember. That was the backdrop to his pain-filled, haphazard escape preparations. That was why he'd nearly taken his shoulders out of joint, why he'd nearly broken his thumb, why he rubbed his wrists raw. He was a pawn to get his father. A pawn to _kill_ his father, and Dean would undoubtedly be somewhere in the crossfire.

His family would come for him and might get _killed_. For _him_.

Sam couldn't let that happen. Getting away, going back--it wasn't just for him. Dean called him a selfish SOB from time to time, but this wasn't selfish. This was about not being the bait to trap his family and about preempting an ambush on them before it happened. He never could have done that tied to a chair or going east.

With new vigor, Sam stood, moving with a renewed energy and purpose. What was a headache, a sprained wrist, blood loss? What was any of it when his family was in danger--because of him. Because he'd been stupid and gotten picked up off the street. This was his fault and he _was _going to fix it.

He had to fix it. He did. His dad was coming for him, Dean was, and whether he was in that cabin or not, _they _would be. They would be with guns and a plan and the intent to kill.

Sam didn't want to die out here in the woods, but he wanted his family to die even less.

He had to stop it. He had to get back there, stop it, prevent it, foil it, _anything_.

The scenery flew by and Sam nearly ran into the pile of wood before he saw it.

Not logs. Not a tree. Wood. Chopped.

The cabin.

He came to an abrupt stop, dropping quickly and low, letting the woodpile serve as a shield until he could figure out just where he was and what was going on.

What was going on? Besides the pain and the cold and how hard it was to breathe and see and--

He couldn't be sure about the cabin. For the most part, he'd been on the insides of the place. The two times he'd been outside of it--well, the first he'd been unconscious. The second he'd been running a little too fast and bleeding a little too much to pay attention.

Squinting through the crevices in the pile, he studied the place. It was getting dark now, dusk was falling, but Sam could still make it out. Nondescript. Small. Wood. Could be it. Could be any cabin. Could be a hallucination, for all he knew. Or a dream.

No, a dream wouldn't _hurt _this much. Not even one of his.

He had to get closer. He had to see inside. He had to think. What the hell would he do if it was the cabin? Would they still be there? Would Sam be in any shape whatsoever to do anything worthwhile?

The crunching of leaves made him freeze, made him go still so fast and so completely that he was pretty sure he stopped breathing.

The crunching continued, slow paced and stealthy and farther away than Sam had first thought. Not behind him, but--

His eyes strained to focus, and then he saw it. A flash of movement.

The figure was approaching from the backside of the cabin, avoiding being in the line of sight for any doors or windows. So not one of the kidnappers.

No, not a kidnapper. Not with that leather jacket and that gait. No, that was Dean.

It seemed so unlikely that Sam didn't believe it. After all this, after all he'd been through, that was _Dean_.

His brother was carrying a gun, at least one visible and he was running his fingers along a window in the back.

It _was_ Dean. He wasn't dreaming. Or even if he was, it didn't change the fact that Sam needed to stop him, needed to go to him, needed to--

A strong wave of vertigo washed over him and he realized he'd been crouched too long. He couldn't breathe and apparently his body had a problem with that.

His eyesight dimmed and his legs collapsed, sending him pitching forward. He didn't quite fall, but came close, and by the time his head had cleared, it was too late.

Dean had jimmied the window open and had gone inside.

To an empty cabin? Sam could hope.

But it wasn't likely. Not with the plans of kidnapping and trapping and _murder_.

With another breath, he felt steadier, and growing sense of uncertainty taking hold in his stomach. Shaky steps took him quickly across the yard until he was at the same window his brother had disappeared into. Peeking in, the room looked unfamiliar to Sam. Simple and used, it hadn't been one Sam had been in. The door was open and through it Sam made out a sight that had him wondering about his sanity once again.

Because his brother was there, gun out, moving cautiously through the opening and beyond that Sam could see a figure tied to a chair.

A figure with dark brown hair and a long, lean build.

A figure that looked a little like him.

No, a lot like him.

His head wound had to be worse than he thought.

To make the whole thing even weirder, Dean had rushed forward to the figure, and even from outside, Sam could hear his brother's voice, _"Sammy!"_

Before Sam could reply, before he could even make sense of any of it, he saw the man with the gun to his brother's back and wished he was dreaming after all.

-o-

Dean almost wished they'd knocked him out.

Because time passed slowly, painfully. He had no way to gauge the passage of any time, no more than he had the ability to do anything. At all.

All he could do was sit and watch and tried to wiggle his fingers to make sure they were really still there.

Watching as Kenny puttered around the cabin, checking doors and windows, prepping equipment, cleaning his gun. The man grin at him from time to time, even whistled a cheery tune that just made Dean want to throw up.

Of course, breathing made Dean want to throw up, too, so it wasn't like it took much.

It occurred to him finally that Kenny was preparing. There had been enough talk of John Winchester and the great and final showdown and watching Kenny set the cabin up just so made him realize with acute clarity that Dean was going to have a front row seat to whatever endgame Kenny had in mind.

No, scratch that, Dean was at the center of it. Dean _was_ it. The bait, the pawn, the everything and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

He had lost all feeling in his arms and an ache had worked through his legs before they, too, went numb. His skin felt bruised where the rope bite painfully into his chest, keeping him erect, even when his tired shoulders simply wanted to slouch.

But that wasn't even the worst of it.

The gag had chapped his lips, left them dried and painful and giving his mouth a lingering taste of dry cotton. The side of his face alternated between throbbing and aching and the dried blood made it feel stretched and cracked.

And he couldn't talk. He couldn't talk, he couldn't move, he couldn't eat, he couldn't go to the bathroom--he couldn't _do_ anything. He was completely helpless. Helpless to stop Kenny, helpless to stop Winchester or whoever was supposed to be coming, helpless to save himself.

There was rage and desperation. There was denial and hope. There was giving up and clinging to _anything_. There was just time, indefinable, endless time. Time that Rory was going to Chilton. Time that some other stock boy was filling the shelves of the market. Time where the car he was working on was sitting in the garage just waiting for him.

Waiting for him. Surely it was waiting for him. Surely the car and his parents and Clara and Rory and even Taylor or his friends or someone or _anyone_ would come for him. Someone besides John Winchester, who wasn't coming for _him _at all.

And that hurt. It did. He wasn't sure why. But he wanted something more to cling to than that. He didn't want to be a pawn, he didn't want to be kidnapped, he just wanted home and safe and normal and to feel like a person again.

Sometimes they didn't find the bodies. Sometimes people disappeared without a trace and ended up on the back of milk cartons and the family boarded up the room and has to move on with life never knowing. Clara would finally get to play her music as loud as she wanted to and Derek could get his starting position on the hockey team and Chris could get his job at the market and Rory could take comfort in Jess.

"Never met a boy who liked to cry as much as you," Kenny said, interrupting his thought.

Dean looked up at him, and could feel the tears on his face. He didn't care.

"Well, now that is a kicked puppy look if I ever saw one," the man continued. "But that's neither here nor there. I'm about ready here, so it's going to get real quiet before the action starts. I mean, you can yell if you want to, but you and I both know the good that'll do. If I knew for sure how this would go down, I'd tell you, but I don't. I suspect it might get a little bloody but you should know that it is all for a just cause."

With that, Kenny pocketed one gun and kept another in his hand before disappearing behind Dean. The shift in atmosphere was subtle, but Dean could feel it. Kenny was hiding. Waiting and hiding. Watching.

Dean's eyes roamed the room again, finding nothing new. His mind searched for some kind of hope, for some kind of rationalization, and came up blank.

Kenny was hiding with a gun and John Winchester was coming and Dean was tied to a chair.

And, oh, it wasn't personal.

When there was a noise some time later, Dean thought he was hallucinating. Maybe dreaming. The sound was soft and subtle, a creak of floorboards and a squeak of a hinge and then Dean saw someone.

Not Kenny, not Ryan.

No, a different guy. Older than Dean but not as old as Dean had suspected John Winchester to be. The guy had a gun and wide careful eyes. The guy's face lit up when he saw Dean.

This was the other kid, Dean realized dimly. Not the kidnapped one who was dying in the woods, but the other one. Winchester's other son.

And it was pretty clear that this guy hadn't caught on to the ruse yet.

Dean hadn't seen how bad he looked, but if the pain was any indication, he'd suspected it was bad. And with this guy looking at him like he was his long lost brother--well, score one for Kenny and Ryan and their perfectly set trap with the perfectly chosen bait.

This was a trap. This guy was walking into a trap. He'd swept the room, given it a visual once-over, but Dean could see it in his eyes. He was too focused on the rescue, on finding his brother. He wasn't looking hard enough, this was going to end badly--

Dean shook his head, frantic, eyes wide and he screamed against the gag.

Kenny was right. It didn't do much good.

"Sammy!" the guy said, and his rush forward was as unexpected as getting kidnapped in the first place.

The guy was at him, looking in his face, fingers in his hair. "What did they do to you?" he was asking.

And Dean wanted to be happy and grateful and relieved because this was rescue, and it felt _good, _but this was _someone else's _rescue. This was Sammy's rescue.

No, this was Kenny's trap.

Dean heard the cock of the gun a second before the guy did. Through blurry vision Dean could see Kenny and the gun, poised to kill.

The guy stiffened, his hand tensing on his own gun, and Dean could hear the brush of a curse under his breath.

"Stand up nice and slow," Kenny ordered. "Or little brother there gets it."

The guy didn't even hesitate. He put the gun on the floor and stood, hands up. Making eye contact with Dean, his face was grim and set and reassuring all at once.

Then there was a flash of a smirk on his face, of confidence that Dean couldn't quite place.

Until he saw the gun tucked into his jeans.

He was going to use it.

Dean's eyes went from the gun to the guy's face to Kenny's gun and it was all going to happen way too fast and Dean knew it wasn't going to be good but he couldn't stop it. He was the only one who knew this whole thing was a mistake and he couldn't stop it, couldn't do anything.

The gun was out from the waistband faster than Dean could blink, and the guy was spinning and firing, and the gunfire was louder than Dean expected, louder and more painful and resounding and--

Oh, God.

Dean's breath caught in his chest, and pain exploded across his abdomen.

The guy wasn't the only one who had fired.

And Kenny was many things, but apparently a liar wasn't one of them.

There was blood. A lot of blood. A lot of Dean's blood.

"Sam?" the guy was asking. "Sammy?"

Dean blinked slowly, and tried to look up. Tried to do something but there was nothing to do. Nothing but sit there and bleed.

He was vaguely aware of a tussle, of curses and grunts and mocking and threats and it didn't matter anymore. Dean was tied to a chair, kidnapped and shot, and it wasn't personal and that was about all Dean's body and self-esteem and morale could take for one day before his mind just shut _off_.

-o-

It was all so simple. A simple plan, a simple execution, one, two, three, and they'd have Sam back and leave Connecticut no worse for wear.

It was simple to find the cabin, simple to get inside. Simple to get to Sam, simple to untie him. Simple to walk into the oldest damn trap in the book.

And simple to get his little brother shot.

Most idiots with guns were too soft to pull the trigger, even hunters and even kidnappers. Hell, Dean hadn't been sure if he could shoot to kill when he pulled his own. Even more idiots were slower than he was with far less accurate aim. Dean had been banking on that.

Dean had put all his money on the wrong horse and now Sam was bleeding from a gunshot wound.

He was on his knees, trying to see the thing--defensive position didn't mean crap now. His shot had gone wide and the perp's had found its mark and Dean's slim window of opportunity was long gone.

"Sam? Sammy?" he asked, pulling at the layers of clothing.

There was something wrong, though--something even more wrong than his mess up and Sam's gunshot. Something about the way Sam had looked at him, something about the fear and confusion on his face, the tears in his eyes.

The clothes. The clothes Dean didn't recognize. Too trendy, too new, too--

"I suggest you step away from the little brother," the guy said.

Dean felt himself stiffen, his jaw hardening.

Tentatively, he glanced over his shoulder, but didn't stand up. "Just let me help him."

"You two aren't the ones I want anyway," the guy said.

Dean barked a humorless laugh. "You really think he'll fall for any trap you set up?"

The guy grinned. "Both of you did."

"My dad has a bit more experience than we do," Dean said.

Eyes cold, the guy's mouth flattened. "It's not going to do him a bit of good," he said. "Just like it didn't do my dad any good."

"So you are Jeremiah's boys?"

"Good man, my dad," he said. "And John Winchester let him die like he was nothing."

"It wasn't like that."

"Were you there?" the guy snapped.

Dean bristled a little. "No. But neither were you."

"How old are you, kid? Nineteen, twenty? Let me tell you something about hunters. The reason so many of them hunt alone is because everyone knows you can't trust someone else on the hunt. Because out there--when it's all going to hell--you'll always choose yourself. Unless you're family. Everyone knows there's only three things John Winchester cares about: you two boys and some damn vendetta that can probably never be solved. Well, I get that. I really do. Which is why I'm sorry it had to come to this. There's nothing personal when it comes to you two. But I'm willing to get a little blood on my hands to teach that selfish son of a bitch that he can't double cross us."

It was everything he and his dad had theorized--almost to a point. So why it was so hard to hear? Dean wasn't sure.

Maybe the fact that Sam was quite possibly bleeding to death right next to him had something to do with it.

"Come on," the guy said, motioning with the gun. "Untie him and get him up. You can do whatever you want once I get you secured in the back room."

Usually Dean only took orders from his father and under any other circumstances he'd tell this guy to shove it where the sun don't shine, but not this time Not when Sam was bleeding and it was all his fault.

Swallowing hard, Dean turned his attention back to Sam, though all too aware of the gun still pointed at his back. But there was no time for that now--no time for self recriminations. Just Sam.

His kid brother was limp now, head dipped forward, held upright by the ropes across his chest, Even with the mop of hair obscuring Sam's face, Dean could see the bruises.

With a steadying breath, he forced himself to move past the injuries, both superficial and serious, and set to the task of untying his younger brother. Deftly, he took to the hands first, fingers picking at the knot until it frayed and came lose, releasing his brother's hands so they fell loose to his sides. Next he tackled the feet, which took a little longer, until they, too, were free.

Sitting up again, Dean carefully worked at the cords around his brother's chest, unwrapping them and positioning himself carefully as the last one came undone and Sam slumped against him.

The weight was less than Dean expected, but warmer than he'd hoped. He could feel wetness already against his shirt.

"Okay, now get him up and go to the back of the cabin, the door right over there."

With difficulty, Dean maneuvered Sam back in the chair, angling himself under his brother. With careful movements, he pulled Sam over his shoulder, then pushed himself to stand, meeting the kidnapper's eyes with a deadly gaze.

"To the back," he said again, nodding to something behind Dean. "Come on."

Lips pursed, Dean moved, Sam's arms flopping against his back.

Dean saw the door and waited as the guy came around, gun still trained on him, and opened it.

"Now inside," he said.

The room was small and narrow--nothing more than a walk-in closet. No windows, thick plank walls. A simple bare light bulb hung, illuminated from the ceiling. An apt enough cell.

The gun poked him. "Come on," the guy hissed. "I told you this isn't about you, but don't think I won't finish you and your brother where you stand. I don't need you two alive for what I've got planned for your dad."

Sam was a dead weight on his shoulder and he felt stupid and scared and just so _stupid_ but there was nothing else he could do. Nothing else.

Carefully, he put Sam down, mindful that the kid had not had a good couple of days. As he shifted, he felt the gun still stuffed in his pants, the knife strapped to his calf.

It might be worth it.

It only took one good shot, one good stab. And the guy might not see it coming.

At worst, the guy would shoot him--Sam was clear of the fire.

At best, he might get them the hell out of this.

"Take out your other gun and your knife and whatever weapons you've got on you," the guy said. "Real nice and slow. Put them on the ground and push them back before you move an inch."

So much for that plan.

Getting himself killed wouldn't help Sam.

With a sigh, he pulled out the gun. Then, eyes on Sam's lax face, he pushed it back. A few more fluid movements and he removed the knife, sliding it back as well.

"Is that everything?"

"You're the one with the gun."

"I don't want to search you."

"Then take my word for it."

"I'll take your brother's life for it if you're lying."

He knew his leverage. And Dean hated him for it. Hated him, but couldn't deny it. "I'll need bandages," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "Can I get bandages and water?"

The guy just laughed, short and mocking. "I'll check on you in a bit," he said. "Holler if the kid dies."

With that, the door closed with a finality that made Dean feel cold.

Cursing to himself, Dean sighed. "We got ourselves in a mess this time, didn't we, Sammy?"

Sam remained unmoving, crumpled on his side. Tie to focus, prioritize. See how bad Sam was, see how well Dean could treat the injuries before his dad got here.

Because his dad would get here. For him and Sam.

And hey, at least Sam wasn't missing anymore.

Gently, he arranged Sam flat on his back, positioning the gangly limbs more comfortably. Then, carefully, he pried at Sam's clothes, pulling up the t-shirt and the sweater to get a better look at the gunshot.

At first, all he could see was blood--lots of it, smeared over the area and drenching the top of Sam's jeans. Wiping away the blood, Dean tried to get a good look at it.

He'd seen wounds before, but usually when he shot things, he wasn't interested in patching them up afterwards. He had basic first aid, but truthfully, he was much more trained in cuts and slices than this kind of thing.

The wound was small and puckered, in the taut flesh of Sam's side. It was hard to tell, and Dean had never cared much for biology in school, but he knew enough about anatomy to know the wound didn't look like it had hit anything vital. Maybe the edge of the intestines, maybe a kidney, but it looked like a flesh wound. A bloody one--maybe hit an artery or a vein, Dean wasn't sure, couldn't be sure.

Still, pressure was the way to go.

Shrugging out of his jacket, he pulled off his flannel shirt, pushing it hard into Sam's side.

The action made his brother groan, shifting slightly, and Dean turned his attention to his brother's face. "Hey, Sammy," he said, brushing the bangs away from Sam's bruised face. "You with me?"

Sam groaned again, his head moving, and something was wrong. Something wasn't right. Something more than the bullet wound and the head injury and--

These weren't Sam's clothes.

Sam had never had clothes like that.

Why would the kidnappers change Sam's clothes?

Unless, Dean peered closer, smoothing away the blood from Sam's face to get a good look at it.

The features looked similar, familiar, but--the nose was longer, finer. The face thinner. The body skinnier, less muscle mass.

Dean didn't know whether to be relieved or freaked, because this wasn't his brother.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Sorry I didn't get this up sooner. I would give you a good excuse if I had one, but somehow my life just seems busy sometimes :) The reviews are quite lovely, so thanks for those. Things are going to get a bit more confusing possibly as the Deans start talking to one another, but I hope it's not too complicated to follow. Other notes and whatnot in chapter one.

* * *

CHAPTER FIVE

East, west, north, south. Running, walking, skipping, sleeping. None of it freakin' mattered anymore. None of it. Because they had _Dean_.

They had Dean and it was all Sam's fault and they _had_ him and Sam was cold and sick and tired and terrified. He hadn't been scared when they jumped him--though maybe he should have been. He hadn't been scared when they kicked him around and tied him to a chair, jerk-offs that they were. But outside the cabin, free but screwed, he was downright scared senseless at the idea of his brother at the wrong end of a gun.

Though Sam had to admit, he wasn't sure how reliable he was anymore. After all, he did just see himself get rescued by his brother, who then proceeded to get caught, and then to top it all off, he watched himself get shot.

He might have chalked the whole thing up to one really bad hallucination or maybe some fevered dream that he was having in a pile of wet leaves somewhere, but for the gunshot. That gunshot was real--he knew that sound--and so was the anguished desperation in his brother's voice--not for his own pain, but for Sam's.

Or not-Sam's. Or whoever it was that Dean was rescuing.

Not-Sam was a problem Sam had to make sense of eventually, but his focus was on his brother. Limping, he kept low and discreet, trying to maintain a clear eye on the action, but careful not to give away his presence until he had this figured out. Dean was straining under the weight of the bleeding not-Sam, hoisting him awkwardly to the back room, which Sam vaguely recognized as the place of his own captivity. Sam watched, crouched below a window, as the bigger guy--who was far too fond of punching and kicking prone victims, as Sam could not forget--closed the door and locked it, smirking as he did.

They'd let Sam get away and the guy still probably had a knot on the side of his head to prove it. But they weren't going to let Dean get away. And Dean wasn't going to be able to get away with not-Sam weighing him down.

Flattening himself against the back of the house, Sam closed his eyes and tried to think. Think beyond his aching body and the pervasive desire to sleep and even beyond his brother's life in jeopardy. Think like a Winchester. Think like _plans_ and _rescue_ and big damn hero stuff.

Or just think like _what the hell is going on_?

Dean had come to the cabin, that much made sense. Sam had counted on that, believed in it and clung to it. It was why he hadn't been afraid and why'd he'd come back here.

So Dean made sense.

And the lumbering oaf certainly made sense. Wielding guns and planting ambushes--again, Sam had expected as much.

But there were a few key things to keep in mind. First, there was only _one _lumbering oaf in the cabin. There were two of them, but only one had taken part in the ambush, which left one lumbering oaf unaccounted for. While he had suspected this second lumbering oaf to be somewhat of a softy, he also did not figure that lumbering oaf number one would let lumbering oaf number two just disappear and go his merry way. Not even for takeout, though they did seem rather fond of the stuff.

So, no, lumbering oaf number two's absence was significant. And likely related to the second thing Sam had to keep in mind.

His dad.

His dad would never be uninvolved in Sam's rescue. Even with Sam's sometimes contrary nature or incessant need to know _why_, their dad was almost irrationally and loyally protective. He would never send Dean to do a job that he considered that important by himself, which meant that good old John Winchester had a role in this.

That left number three: the entire thing had been a setup from the beginning, that much had always been clear. But the setup was for John, it was for revenge, for _murder_. Sam knew that his father would figure that much out. But would he have figured out all the ins and outs? Was Dean getting captured part of the plan? Was his father hiding around here somewhere? Maybe taking out lumbering oaf number two?

Or was it possible that the lumbering oafs, for all their lumbering and oafishness, had managed to find some success with their plan? After all, there had been actual gunfire involved and a very limp looking not-Sam.

So what if Dean had expected to save Sam without consequence and his dad was hoping to take out the lumbering oafs and what if they screwed up?

That thought permeated the pain more then the rest, settling in the pit of his stomach like a bowling ball and running through his addled consciousness like a runaway train.

What if they screwed up?

What if Dean wasn't supposed to get captured? What if dad wasn't lurking in the wings? What if lumbering oaf number two actually got his crap together and managed to take out John Winchester?

Because the entire thing was a setup. Sam had been a setup and not-Sam was apparently a set-up because these two lumbering oafs actually went out of their way to find a not-Sam.

So points four, five, six, and seven: Sam needed to get Dean _out_ of there, he needed to get Dean out of there _now_, and they both needed to get to wherever their dad was. And figure out who on Earth not-Sam was.

Sam was pretty sure that was seven points.

Or was it eight?

Or technically seven since a few were kind of similar?

Or--

What did it matter? He needed to focus and plan. Because he could be the wild card here. The presence of not-Sam meant something pretty telling: the lumbering oafs had counted him out of the game. They weren't chasing him, so they didn't consider him a threat. They'd replaced him with someone else to get his brother and dad there, which meant they weren't counting on Sam coming back.

Which, given the Sam's current state, maybe wasn't such a dumb conclusion.

But they forgot one thing. One very important thing.

Sam was a Winchester.

And today he was going to live up to that--no matter what.

-o-

Dean wasn't a morning person necessarily, but he'd never really given himself any other options. After all, school was in the morning, chores were in the morning, work was in the morning--there was always something he had to do, and sleeping in only prolonged the inevitable or worse, made it difficult to complete the inevitable. His mother hadn't tolerated laziness and Taylor paid well enough to make getting out of bed a worthwhile experience.

And Rory. He liked texting her in the morning, hearing her voice on morning phone calls, meeting her for breakfast at Luke's before school.

So morning person or not, getting up wasn't something he dreaded, not really, because he'd always sort of figured that being awake was better than being asleep, that he had more to look forward to than to dread in any given day.

But today?

He really, really, _really_ did not want to wake up. At all. Ever again.

Okay, scratch that. He may like to wake up again. Just maybe someplace familiar and warm and pain-free.

He wasn't even fully awake this time when he knew he'd have no such luck on that front. He willed himself back into oblivion but Dean's luck was still stuck on _horrifically awful_.

"Hey," someone said. "Hey, you with me?"

Dean had to assume that this guy was talking to him but it wasn't much incentive to open his eyes because he was _tired_ of people.

"Come on, wake up," the voice said again.

It occurred to Dean that this was someone different, someone knew. Someone not Kenny or Ryan, which might be a good thing, but it might not, but maybe it was a paramedic or something, but wouldn't they be doing something about the pain?

"Seriously, just wake up," the guy said.

That came across a bit pleading, a bit like an order, and Dean was just plain sick of taking orders, of being told what to do, of having no say in _anything_.

The guy laughed. "For not being Sammy, you sure do sulk like him."

Who was Sammy? Who was this guy? Why did it _hurt_?

Just like the rest of his life, then, it was the inevitability of it that got him to just give in. Squinting, his eyelids fluttered a little before focusing on the scene around him.

The same clapboard walls. But different. More closed in. No windows--artificial lights. And no chair--where was the chair? And no ropes. No chair and no ropes and no Kenny and--

He'd seen this new guy. From before. Coming to the rescue. Winchester's kid?

This new guy was staring at Dean, eyebrows raised, his face drawn and a little weary. "How are you feeling?"

Just the question made Dean wince. He felt awful--worse than before. Everything hurt, and he felt weak, very weak, and there was a low burn in his side. He wanted to ask _what happened_ but when he opened his mouth, it felt parched and strained and there wasn't a gag anymore.

"Yeah, your voice is going to be a little off for awhile," the guy said. "That gag was in pretty tight and it looks like you were screaming for awhile"

Dean remembered that--vaguely. The incoherent, desperation of not even being able to express himself.

The pain flared in his side anew, so searing that it ripped across his entire abdomen with an intensity that made his eyes water and his stomach turn.

"Easy," the guy said, putting a restraining hand on Dean's shoulder. "I've got some pressure on it but the bullet's still in there."

Dean's eyes went wide and his heart skipped a beat. _The bullet's still in there? _What did that really mean?

"Hey, hey, hey," the guy said, seeming to sense Dean's panic. "It's got to hurt like hell, I'm sure, but you're okay for now, okay? Just take it easy and try not to move and it'll be okay."

It'll be okay? Dean didn't see how it would be okay. Nothing would be okay. He was still kidnapped and his head hurt and his mouth felt like it might never function again and his side was in _flames_ and he wanted to throw up and sleep and he was hot and cold and whatever rescue was supposed to be coming for him didn't seem to be panning out and this guy wanted to tell him it was _okay_.

"Yeah, I know," the guy said. "It doesn't _seem _okay, but trust me. I've been through worse. And my dad's coming. So, yeah, it'll be okay."

It would be nice to take his word for it, but Dean was a little short up on trust.

The guy's face went serious for a second and he chewed his lip thoughtfully. "So what's your name?" he asked finally.

He may not trust that things were going to be okay, but he had no reason to not trust this guy. Or not reason to doubt that talking to him would do anything worse. He struggled to get saliva in his mouth, swallowing. "Dean," he said.

The guy just looked confused. "How do you know who I am?"

And this just kept getting better and better. He shook his head. "Who are you?" he asked, disturbed by the scratchiness of his own voice.

"I'm _Dean_," the guy said emphatically.

Maybe he was still dreaming. At any minute, Lorelai would eat her way out of a giant meatball and down a pot of coffee while Rory serenaded the event and Taylor sold tickets and everyone walked around with name tags that said _Dean_.

He closed his eyes, swallowing again. "No, _I'm_ Dean," he said. He opened his eyes and it was all the same. "Dean of Dean and Rory. Bag boy. Stock boy. Dean Forester." And why did it sound like he was slurring?

The guy frowned, pressing a cool hand against his forehead. "You've got a fever," he said absently, pulling his hand away. "And you're Dean Forester?"

He said it like he knew him or knew of him, which added another nice layer to the surreal factor. "Like anyone around here cares," he muttered. "It's just _Winchester_. All the time _Winchester_."

"Yeah, sorry about that," the guy said. "I have a feeling this has nothing to do with you."

Sure, he was kidnapped and beaten and shot. "It's not personal," he said.

The guy looked concerned. "Yeah," he said. "Kind of a long story."

At one point, Dean might have cared. Might have truly, honestly, completely cared. But he was so past caring, he was _way_ past caring. No more caring. Done with it entirely. Why wasn't Rory here. Rory could make him care, make him interested again. She could make CSPAN interesting, she could make hours of book shopping interesting, so she could surely make a kidnapping interesting.

"So we never actually went over how you're feeling," the guy prompted.

Dean just glared at him because he didn't really wan to talk about _that_. Not that there was much to talk about because this guy had _eyes_ so surely he could _see_, especially since this guy seemed to know more about all this mess than he did.

Which, really seemed just his luck. Dean had bad luck. He did. Bad luck because he always had to work on Friday nights when he had a date with Rory and he had to babysit Clara when he wanted to hang out with his friends and he didn't bring enough money so Jess could buy Rory's basket and Rory didn't love him and the entire town blames him.

"Kid," the guy said, more insistent now, shaking him lightly on the shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

Dean glared again, and sort of wished he hadn't because his head hurt. "It hurts," he said.

The guy raised his eyebrows at that. "Yeah, I can imagine," he said. "But once we get you out of here, things are going to be better."

Dean laughed at that a little, and he realized he felt hysterical. "I just wanted to go home," he said. "Why didn't they just let me go home?"

Because this wasn't about _him_. It wasn't and he was _tired_.

The guy drew his eyebrows together, lips pursed. "Look, kid, I know this is probably pretty messed up for you," he said.

Scoffing, Dean rolled his eyes. Understatement of the year. Maybe the century. Or millennia. Or _ever_.

"So, hey," the guy said. "I don't suppose you saw another kid, did you?"

Another kid? Ever? Like he didn't exist in the real world with an entire population of _kids_. Rory and Lane and Kyle and Josh and even Jess. Jess was a kid, right? Even sarcastic, self-absorbed, screwed up _jerks_ could be kids, couldn't they?

"Here, I mean," the guy was saying. "Did you see another kid here?"

This guy really wanted an answer, an honest to God answer. "No," he said. "They took me off the street and I woke up here. Here. Tied up and gagged and they talked and they hit me and then they _shot _me, I think. I mean, that's what you said."

"No, yeah," the guy said. "I mean, I'm sorry. It's just---well, I came for my brother. His name's Sam."

Insult to injury. Literally. Finding Dean was just an accident. A disappointment. _Gets me shot, and the guy just wants to know about his brother_.

Well, Dean just wanted to know what Rory saw in Jess and why Clara suddenly started hiding pictures of cute boys under her bed when she thought no one was looking. And he wanted to know why Taylor thought that people wanted to buy so much honey. Every week, more shipments of honey. What was with all the honey?

"I haven't seen your brother," Dean said, closing his eyes. "I don't know your brother. I don't know you. I don't even have a brother. I have a sister. Two sisters. And a girlfriend. She doesn't have a brother either."

The cool hand was on his face again. "Hey, kid. Come on."

"It's Dean," he said, trying to roll his head away. "My name is _Dean_."

"Well coincidentally, that's mine, too."

That got Dean to open his eyes. "You're Dean?"

"I'd say the one and only but present company would make that a lie."

Did that make any sense whatsoever? This guy didn't talk as fast as Rory but he wasn't as pretty to look at either. His hair wasn't as nice.

The guy's face went from confident and cocky to hedging again. Then he looked down, fiddling at something at Dean's side, and the pain blossomed anew.

His visioned darkened, pain buzzing loudly in his ears, and his heart thudded painfully against his chest and his throat tightened.

Then the hands again, on his face, on his shoulder, assuring, comforting. "Just take it easy," the guy said. "You're okay, you're okay."

Dean wasn't sure if he really believed it, but the way this guy said it was so sure and so certain that Dean couldn't help but trust him.

"Breathe through it," the guy soothed. "Keep breathing."

Dean tried, he did, but it was hard and it hurt and he wanted to sleep and all he could think was this Sam Winchester was a pretty lucky guy.

-o-

The kid was in bad shape.

He hadn't been in great shape when Dean had found him but now--well, the bullet wound hadn't exactly made things better and to make matters worse, the kid seemed to be developing a bit of a fever.

As if Dean didn't feel bad enough as it was.

This was, after all, partially his fault. No, he hadn't pulled the trigger, or even been the one to kidnap the kid, but he'd been the one to walk into the setup and he'd been the one to try to get out of it rather unsuccessfully which had ended up with this kid getting a bullet in the gut.

And to make things even _worse_? This kid wasn't Sam.

This kid was just a kid. Dean Forester. _Dean_ Forester. Of all the names. Dean. Forester--

The name clicked.

The missing kid from that dinky town. He worked at the market, never showed up for work. He should have paid more attention--two missing teens was coincidental and the Winchesters didn't believe in coincidence.

Sloppy. Just like his rescue.

Well, at least one mystery solved. Not the mystery he had wanted to solve, not even a mystery he'd been trying to solve, but he couldn't help but be relieved.

He swore, dropping his head into his hands. Dean was relieved. Dean was relieved not because he'd found the missing kid, but that this wasn't Sam. That it wasn't Sam lying here, bleeding to death. That this was some other kid, some innocent kid, some kid who worked in a market in a small town with a girlfriend and sisters.

Lifting his head, he looked at the kid again. Dean Forester. Beneath the bruises and the blood, the kid looked so damn _young_. Younger than Sam. This kid didn't deserve this.

The similarities were still there between this kid in his brother, but this kid? His face looked younger, even with the swelling. He wasn't as well built, but then again he didn't _need_ to be. This kid didn't need to train, he didn't hunt, he just worked at a market and probably babysat his sister and took his girlfriend on dates. He probably went to school and studied and played baseball or something equally stereotypically American.

The life Sam wanted. The life Sam always brooded over, fought for, and _wanted_.

The life _he_ had wanted for Sam.

It was the reason he'd lied to Sam for half his life--not just to follow orders, but to protect Sam, to give Sam every chance at normal and innocent as he could. Because Sam, even when he didn't know it, had never had it. He hadn't even had four years of a mother and a father and a permanent address. And that--that was a feeling every kid deserved.

It was the reason he'd tried to protect Sam, to keep Sam safe because Sam deserved that stuff. His kid brother was freakishly smart, athletic, friendly. He could be a golden boy. He _should_ have been a golden boy. Hell, the things Sammy managed to do while changing schools so many times in a year was remarkable. To think of Sam settled--

If Dean was honest, he knew that the reason Sam fought so hard sometimes, the reason he was so sullen, so sulky, is because Sam knew what he was capable of, too. Sam knew there was something he was missing out on, something more he could achieve. And Sam didn't want to settle for less.

Dean didn't want to lose his brother, but sometimes he didn't want Sam to settle either.

It wasn't an option though. Not for Sam. Not yet. But for this kid--

Well, he couldn't screw it up for this kid by getting him killed.

So he'd just have to save his life.

Which would be a whole lot easier were they not trapped in some closet with some idiot with a gun lurking on the other side.

And if he wasn't so worried about Sam. Because Sam was supposed to be _here_. And while he was more than happy not to have his little brother bleeding, that still raised the ever-so-important question of where his brother actually _was_.

Given the likeness between this wee Dean (who wasn't really so wee--the kid had the quasi-Sasquatch-in-training thing going on himself), it was pretty clear that this was meant to be Sam's replacement. Which meant they'd had Sam, but they didn't anymore. Which meant Sam could have gotten the way. The kid was resourceful, Dean was sure of that, so Sam could have escaped and could be on his way back to civilization as Dean sat there.

Or...

There wasn't an _or_. Dean wouldn't even entertain an _or_.

No, Sam had gotten away. Sam was fine and he'd be waiting for Dean, shaking his head, telling Dean was a moron he was for getting himself caught.

And wee Dean would be okay, he'd be _fine_, and they'd get out of here and the kid would go to the hospital and get all fixed up and go back to his apple pie life and forget this whole thing had ever happened.

His dad would be coming--because no doubt the exchange had been an ambush, too, but his dad wouldn't fall for that crap. His dad wouldn't have fallen for this crap. His dad would have checked the entire cabin, Sam or no Sam, secured it, made sure. He would have pulled off the shot, would have stopped the guy from firing.

His dad was going to rip him a new one. Dean felt crappy enough that he'd take every word of it. Almost with relish. Hell, he might do an extra rep of all his nightly training as a self-inflicted punishment for being so damn stupid--his dad wouldn't be able to tell him anything Dean wasn't already berating himself for.

In the meantime, Dean needed to be ready.

Checking the kid again, wee Dean was still out cold, shivering now with a sheen of sweat glistening on his face. The makeshift bandage was mostly soaked through, but still in place. There wasn't much more he could do for the kid.

Standing, he walked the small lengths of the room, feeling along the walls, looking for a weakness, for a crack, for anything.

The room was small and the walls bare and even though the place looked old, but sturdy. The walls weren't going anywhere. No windows. The door was thick and solid and the lock was strong. Nothing on the floors--not a piece of furniture, not even a piece of trash or a freakin' spider to keep him company.

There was no way out.

Sighing, Dean sunk back to the floor.

No way out.

Which meant waiting. Being ready. That whole be prepared, Boy Scout crap. Because there would be a chance, an opportunity. Whether it was a moment of weakness from Jim-Bob with a gun out there or when his dad came or anything else, there would be a chance.

His eye lingered on the kid again. The wee Dean living Sam's life bleeding to death on the floor.

He would just have to hope that the kid would still be alive by the time Dean saw his chance to move.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I'm a little slow on the posting here, but I hope it's worth the wait. We're reaching the climax here, so the action should be about at its peak. Thanks for the continued kind words! I hope the Deans are clear :)

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CHAPTER SIX

His dad was really some kind of freak. All the training and the guns and the psychotic journal keeping, yeah, his dad was pretty well whacked. He was dark and broody and knew far too much about how to kill things and had the dates people had died in terrible and awful ways in a journal that he carried from place to place. Sure, Sam was used to that--used to the waking at five AM to run two miles and used to the weekly honing of the weapons arsenal that would make a cop all itchy with anticipation. Sam was used to it and he supposed for them it was really pretty normal, but Sam wasn't oblivious. He realized just how freakish it all was.

His dad was like Rocky and Rambo and Yoda all at once.

Which was really quite the mental image. Even worse than that time he'd accidentally walked in on Dean when he was with the little redhead in Tulsa.

That was making him sick, now that he thought about it.

Nope, that would be the head injury, yet again.

It wasn't just that his dad was a freak; it was that his dad was a damn brilliant freak and even though a lot of the time Sam wanted nothing to do with his dad, right now he just needed to think like him. Military and plotting and ruthless and no possibility of failure.

So, think like Dad. Do some planning, some recon, some whatever the hell they did when prepping for a hunt. His brother ate this terminology up and his dad spoke it like everyone talked like that but it all gave Sam a headache.

Fortunately for him, he'd already been inside the structure in question. He'd been in the two main rooms and seen in another one, which meant that he was fairly aware of the entrances and exits in the place (and the cut in his arm still throbbed from his choice of one last time).

On the downside, even with his foreknowledge of the cabin, there weren't any easy ins and outs, because he wasn't really keen on breaking through another window.

But since when did Sam want to do anything the easy way? Easy was overrated. Easy was too, well, easy, and Winchesters didn't do _easy_ things.

He shook his head, clearing it. He really needed a long nap after this.

First things first, getting Dean out of there. And not-Sam, too, who Sam had to assume was more than a figment of his imagine for now.

The good thing was that Dean was okay. His brother had been unharmed as he'd been ushered into the closet. Granted, his brother was likely _unarmed_ by this point, too, but his brother didn't need to be armed. His brother was good, with or without weapons. All his brother needed was a distraction, something to capitalize on.

And Sam could do that. He wasn't sure how much beyond that he could do, but he could do that much. Because he hadn't been training every day since he was ten years old for nothing. He hated the lifestyle, but he'd have to be part-dead to not learn some of this stuff. His dad was so going to tell him _I told you so_ but in a very dad way that meant fifty extra sit ups and a smug look on his face.

If Sam got out of this alive, Sam might just oblige him, might even do that extra fifty without a single complaint.

So. Distraction. He'd prefer something real and manly, some kind of kamikaze mission his brother could then taken advantage of and thus prevent the actual kamikaze part of it.

Keep it simple. Go in, confront lumbering oaf number one, put up a fight and hope that Dean busted his way out in time. Dean was good at that. Some kind of weird big brother sense.

Kamikaze or not, Sam needed to be armed in some form. He was, after all, not feeling so good.

He let his eyes wander, taking in his surroundings. It was sort of getting hard to see, and at first Sam wondered if that was because the swelling around his eyes was increasing, but then it occurred to him that it was dusk, rapidly approaching dark.

More reason to move. He didn't want to be out here by himself when it got dark.

But a weapon. Where would there be a weapon? There was woods and trees and the cabin and--the wood pile. He was hiding behind a wood pile. What better weapon for the logically impaired than a hunk of wood?

Sitting up, he grabbed a piece that was big enough to do damage but small enough that he could still carry without wanting to fall over from exertion, which might kind of make his distraction more laughable than successful.

Acceptable piece in hand, he took a cleansing breath. It didn't do any good. His head felt dizzy and his arm was almost so painful that it was numb. His ankle tweaked and he felt sick.

All things considered, this was about as good as he'd felt in two days. Or three days. Or--

What did it matter? What did any of it matter? This wasn't even about him anymore--it was about Dean, it was about his brother, and Sam couldn't let anything happen to him.

It was time to move.

-o-

When his parents told him that he was moving to some nowhere town, some place far, far away from Chicago, he'd been angry. He'd been so angry and upset and hurt because Chicago was home, the little brownstone in Wrigleyville was his home. His room had been small and Audrey and Clara had fought like cats and dogs but his friend Jimmy had lived in an apartment building with a view of the stadium and there was a park with a ball diamond right down the street from him. His dad had let him sit in the garage on Saturdays and his grandfather was already talking about letting him work there next summer. And his girlfriend, he'd had a girlfriend, and she was cute and sweet and she made him feel giddy inside just thinking about her.

It had been home and he'd been happy and he hadn't wanted to leave and who lived in a town called Stars Hollow, anyway?

True, when he'd moved there, he'd hated it. He'd even hated his room with its big window looking out over a big yard on a big street with big houses and big trees and everything was big except the town and the school and the things that _mattered_.

There were a couple of guys who were okay, and there was actually a pretty decent salvage yard, and it was nice to have a room he could stretch out in to do push-ups. But it wasn't home, it wasn't quite right, until _her_.

Until Rory Gilmore.

One look, and he was smitten. One look and Connecticut and small towns and working in a grocery store was all worthwhile. It was home.

And the lesson?

That sometimes things happened for a reason. That sometimes even bad things could be good things, that sometimes life was meant to be.

But, sometimes, bad things were just bad things. Sometimes even the perfect girl was attracted to the wrong guy and all Dean had was a girl who he loved but kept looking at someone else and a room and a job in a town he wasn't even sure he liked.

Or worse. Sometimes, apparently, he got kidnapped and no one wanted to look for him and no one probably missed him and Jess probably could comfort Rory and that just made him nauseous--

He was going to throw up. Not as part of this depressingly nostalgic dream, but really.

The gagging motion brought him to full awareness in time to turn his head to the side.

Someone was swearing in the background and for a second, Dean thought maybe it was his subconscious, which was kind of weird, but not out of the realm of possibility, but then he felt someone rolling him.

Someone--the guy. The Dean guy.

That was about all the time he had for coherent thought before his stomach twisted again and more bile came forth.

Strong hands braced him, holding him up enough so he didn't collapse to the ground.

"You're okay," the guy was saying. "You're okay."

Dean wanted to believe him, but didn't know how to believe anything. He heaved again, tears springing to his eyes.

When he was finished, he sagged, and would have collapsed were it not for the guy holding him. He could barely think and couldn't resist as the guy turned him back on his back, relaxing him against the floorboards.

For long moments, he focused on breathing, in and out, ignoring the pain flaring in his side. It had to get better--it had to, didn't it? It couldn't get worse.

"How are you feeling?"

That question. That question was so unbelievably ridiculously stupid and Rory would have had the self-awareness to at least realize the utter ridiculousness of the question even if she subjected him to it. Opening his eyes, he glared up at the guy.

"Okay, then," the guy said with a wry quirk to his lips. "So I take it that means not so good."

Panting, Dean closed his eyes again, trying to turn away. He didn't want to deal with this. Denial was his friend. It was working okay when it came to the annoyance that was Jess, so maybe it would work here.

"Hey, come on," the guy said, jabbing him gently in the shoulder. "Maybe you should stay awake for a bit."

Apparently this guy didn't really believe in the art of denial. "'m tired," he said, because it was all he could think about suddenly.

The guy sighed. "Yeah, I think it's the fever. And the blood loss. And, okay, the concussion."

Was this guy trying to make this worse? "Go 'way," he muttered. Not even Rory was this tenacious when she wanted to talk him into watching some idiotic chick flick for the fiftieth time.

"We're going go get out of here, you know," the guy said conversationally. "You'll be back home in no time."

Home. Stars Hollow and his parents and Clara and Rory. He wondered if his mother ever did the dishes without him.

Why was he thinking about dishes? What was wrong with him? Was this what it was like to be a Gilmore? Lorelai said he was one, but Lorelai said a lot of things so maybe she wasn't the most reliable source, though she seemed to be right when it counted.

Someone jostled his shoulder again. Not someone. The Dean guy. Dean...Winchester?

He opened his eyes, but it was like looking through gauze. Not that he had ever looked through gauze but that was what it reminded him of. Though it was sort of a weird saying now that he thought about it. He could probably use some gauze right now.

"Hey, you awake enough to talk?"

"I don' wanna," Dean muttered, frowning against the pain, and he wished he could actually talk without sounding drunk. Not that he'd been drunk, but it seemed like it.

"Look, you need to focus for me, okay? I just need to know if you know anything else--anything that can help us get out of here."

Great. So he was just good for information. He was good for luring other people's fathers and brothers and for pumping for information. Did he have no value in and of himself anymore? He was just Rory's boyfriend and Taylor's stock boy and this Dean guy's way to figure out what happened to his brother. "Jus' stuff," he said. He blinked hard, swallowing and finding himself clearer. "They said it wasn't personal."

That perked the guy up, and he straightened, leaning forward. "With you? It wasn't personal with you?"

Too many questions. "They wanted Winchester," he said.

"Did they say why?"

The question. Always the questions. Rory asked questions, too, but hers were funny, cute, quirky. These were just annoying. And Dean tried to remember, he really did, because he was like that. People wanted him to do things, so he did them. Taylor wanted him to open the store with him, so he did. Rory wanted him to read a book, so he did. His mother wanted him to watch Clara, so he did. He just _did_ and he usually didn't think about it, usually didn't even mind, but today? Today he was just plain tired of being someone else's go-to man when it had nothing to do with him at all.

"Revenge," he said, because being a _good _kid was something he just couldn't stop. It must have been some glitch in his genetic makeup. "Their dad. Somethin' about their dad."

"But did they say what they were going to do? I mean, _why_?" the guy's voice was edgy, nervous, persistent. Very persistent. "You have to give me something here, kid, so I know just what I'm dealing with."

He wasn't the one conducting the kidnapping. He really had nothing to do with the kidnapping. So why ask him? Why was he here at all? "I don' remember," he said, because there was information in there, but it was buried in his mind somewhere, behind the concussion maybe. Or the gunshot. That didn't make sense. It didn't have to make sense. He didn't care anymore.

And hey, wasn't it his turn to ask questions? When was it ever his turn? The gag was gone. He squinted, trying to get a good look at the guy, who looked worried or perplexed or both or something.

"Why?" Dean asked.

This made the guy cock his head. "Why what?"

Dean sighed, blinking slowly, trying to keep focused on the conversation at hand. "Why me?"

It was the guy who sighed this time. He leaned his head back and laughed a little. "Man, kid, they told the truth about that much. It's so not personal, as far as I can tell."

Dean groaned. Again and again. He was bleeding and maybe dying and it wasn't personal just didn't cut it. "I wanna know _why_," Dean said, and he was whining. He really was. Like Clara did when she wanted to watch her favorite TV program. Or Rory when she was trying to get him to do something she knew he didn't want to do, like drive to Hartford for a book signing by some journalist Dean had never heard of or going to the Indian place that made Rory's breath smell funny and gave him gas.

"They took my brother," the guy said finally. "My brother, Sam. And I don't know--they must have--lost him or something. But, they still wanted to get my dad's attention, so they took you."

That was it? That was the entire story? The one he'd been trying to figure out since this whole thing began? Explained away so quickly, so _pointlessly_? Dean felt insulted and incredulous and indisposed. Indisposed?

Maybe he'd been spending too much time with Rory.

"I got to tell you, kid," the guy continued. "It's just bad luck for you. You're a dead ringer for my little bro."

And that just made it even worse. He'd been picked as bait for someone else's father because he_ looked_ like some other kid.

This was like a bad movie--really, it was. If he wasn't bleeding to death, maybe it'd be funny. If he wasn't probably going to end up as a corpse on the five o'clock news then, hey, it might be hilarious. Funny, ha-ha, and hey, at least there'd be some guy here so if he survived, they might find the body. Unless they died together, then maybe their bones would get mixed together and it'd be even harder to identify them when some dog dug them up in five years.

But Rory would laugh at this movie, she really would. Her mom and her would sit with a bowl of popcorn laced with M&M's and cheese curls and remind everyone how utterly pathetic it was that this kid on screen couldn't even be worth enough to kidnap on his own behalf, that he had to look like someone else, and how this would only feed feelings of self-doubt and a lack of self-worth that would persist into adulthood, had he survived the ordeal, of course. And Lorelai would snarf a piece of pizza and comment that it was sort of like Shakespeare, with all that dramatic comedy and the irony, or maybe not the irony, because what was irony after all? But even Shakespeare wrote about mistaken identity and how wearing a mask could change anyone's identity, so maybe these kidnappers weren't _stupid_, maybe they were just channeling Shakespeare, which would, of course, make them the opposite of stupid.

Rory would ask why only smart people liked Shakespeare.

And Lorelai would just say that anyone else would just be in it for the tights.

At that point, Dean might have said something, to Lorelai or the guy, he wasn't sure, but the guy might have said something, too, but it was hard to hear, what with Lorelai stuck in his head and all. Really hard to hear and hard to think, hard to think logically anyway, and breathing. He had to _breathe._

"Hey, did you hear that?" the guy was saying, and he was moving, too, standing, pressed against the wall.

No, Dean didn't hear that, and even if he did, he just didn't care.

Then he did hear it, a thump and a yell and a commotion and Dean might have cared, could have cared, but it was too late to care, too late for it to matter at all.

So Dean just closed his eyes and let it all drift away.

-o-

Really, in the grand scheme of things, on the Winchester scale of screwed over, this wasn't all that bad. Not that it was ideal, with Dean locked in a closet with some innocent kid bleeding to death that looked an awful lot like Sammy, but they'd been through worse. They'd survived worse.

Well, he and Sammy had...this kid was way out of his league, though.

Still, he could fix things for this kid. After all, Dean had three things going for him: his dad, who had to be showing up here sooner or later, Sam, who could be out there right now for all he knew, and Dean, himself. Locked away and unarmed, Dean was hardly useless when given the opportunity.

And he'd get the opportunity.

He looked at the kid again, nibbling at the inside of his lip. This time he wouldn't blow it.

Engaging the kid in conversation had been a pretty pointless venture. Dean didn't know enough to appease the kid's questions, and wee Dean was almost too out of it to say anything rational, anyway. The kid was holding on, but he looked worse by the minute, and the lack of coherency wasn't a good sign. At all.

If Dean were the despairing type of guy, he might let himself wallowing in it right about then.

But Dean wasn't the despairing kind of guy. Couldn't be. Despair wouldn't help him get out of here, wouldn't help him get wee Dean out of here. He had to be ready, to--

Then he heard it.

At first a thump, soft and quiet, almost indiscernible.

Then again.

He glanced at the kid, who was still looking at him, kind of, with a glassy-eyed stare.

"You hear that?" he asked, pushing tentatively to his feet.

Wee Dean's eyes roamed a bit, confused and bleary.

Then he heard it again, a louder noise, and a yell, two yells, the voice of the guy with the gun and--

Sam.

Everything else forgotten, Dean pressed himself against the wall, desperate to hear more, to know what was going on.

The clatter increased. Dean could hear the scrap of chairs, wood furniture creaking, breaking. Flesh hit flesh and bodies seemed to roll.

Then the report of gunfire and an unabashed curse before the scuffle started again.

Dean couldn't breathe, couldn't think. He had to get out, had to help Sam, had to do _something_.

Sam cried out, and Dean kicked himself into overdrive, slamming his body hard against the door, ignoring the spike of pain it sent through his arm.

More hits, the sound of shattering glass, and Dean threw himself into the door again, harder this time, more desperate.

He couldn't sit here, he couldn't be locked in some damn closet while his brother was out there, while _Sam_ was out there--

A pause, long and terrifying. Then, a laugh. Deep and cold.

Dean pounded harder, screaming, "Sammy!"

"I figured you were dead, kid," a voice permeated the walls.

"No!" Dean screamed again. "No, don't you touch him, you don't touch him, you son of a bitch!"

Behind him, the kid was groaning, but Dean didn't have time for that--not now, not when--

Another scuffle, frantic and desperate and sudden.

Another report of gunfire that hit Dean hard, rendered him shocked and immobile.

Then silence.

Deep and erie, penetrating all of Dean's senses. Nothing moved, just the sound of his own heart in his ears and the kid's harsh breathing.

His attempts at escape were frozen, stuck in limbo, waiting for a sound, for a sign, for--

Movement.

Slight and quiet. A groan.

But whose?

Dean wanted to call out, to know more--but he couldn't. He just--couldn't. Because he knew his brother was good, he did, but these guys had the guns. These guys had kidnapped Sam and Sam could have been hurt already and--Dean didn't know if he really wanted to know. If he wanted to be sure, in case of--

Footsteps, slow, moving across the floor, closer and closer, until they stopped.

Dean stepped back, more afraid now than he'd been this entire time, keeping one hand steadily on the wall as if it would help him discern, help him prepare for whatever was about to happen.

Surely Sam wouldn't have been taken out by that guy. Not his kid brother. Not like that. Sam was stronger than that, he _was_, Dean had made sure of it.

But Sam would say something, wouldn't he? Call out? Make sure Dean was okay?

Unless Sam wasn't okay. With the beating this kid had taken and the fact that the guy had _shot_ him, it was clear that they weren't afraid of using force. So there was a chance, a strong chance that Sam wasn't in good shape, either.

But Sam had escaped. Escaped and come back and so he had to be okay.

Someone was fumbling with the lock and Dean found himself trembling.

It had to be Sam, it had to be. Because if it wasn't--

He hadn't come to rescue his brother, just to get him killed in a reverse rescue. He hadn't, it couldn't happen--

Then the doorknob turned, the door jerking open slightly before easing the rest of the way.

And there, framed in the doorway, bruised and bloodied, one eye swollen shut, and listing heavily to one side, was his kid brother. Not a close approximation, but _Sam_.

The blood rushed into his head as he released a breath he couldn't remember holding. A grin spread across his face. "Took you long enough," he said finally.

Sam's forehead creased a little, and he smiled and winced all at once. "Dude," he said. Then his smile faded into a grimace, his face twisting into a serious expression. "You suck at rescue missions," he said.

Dean was about to say something snarky, something incredibly brilliant in return, but Sam's eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed to the ground before Dean even had a chance to move.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: One chapter to go after this, so it's working its way toward its resolution. Preseries stuff makes me so nostalgic--even in their angst, it was at least sort of reassuring because I still felt like Sam and Dean LIKED each other. Now, I just want to go cry after each ep and it doesn't seem to be getting any better! All other relevant notes in chapter one. Thanks for continuing to read and review :)

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CHAPTER SEVEN

Coming to consciousness again just made Sam realize with more than a little chagrin that he'd passed out. Flat on his face, sprawled on hardwood floor, right in front of his brother no less.

He supposed he should be grateful that he'd waited that long to do it. He'd wanted to take a nosedive all day long, so the fact that his body let him actually get past all the running through the woods and rescuing nonsense was actually pretty impressive.

Didn't make coming to any easier.

His senses were coming back gradually. First, the ability to think, which was always good, followed by the ability to hear.

"Make sure it's tight, Dean. We don't want them getting away."

His dad. His dad was here.

Which...made sense. He knew his dad would come. He just seemed to have slept through that part.

Then it occurred to him that he was moving. How, he wasn't quite sure, because he was pretty sure he wasn't doing it. Which meant--Sam wanted to groan but his voice hadn't come back yet--he was being carried.

"You sure I can't just take a shot at a knee?" Dean was saying, his voice strained. Even only semiconscious, Sam could tell it was only partially a joke.

"They're not worth the bullets," was his dad's deadpanned reply.

Hearing was all well and good until the sense of touch came back into play. The movement stopped, and it smelled like leather and oil, the Impala, and his dad and his brother, and _pain. _

And that's when hearing, seeing, smelling, thinking all went out the window. Metaphorically speaking, anyway. Sam had already taken that far too literal in the last few days.

The thought made him nauseous, and he wanted to curl away from it, but there was no place to go, not even as he buried his nose into the Impala's back seat. Because the pain sharp and aching, tingling through his entire body and he wished for unconsciousness again. The grating in his head had ratcheted up to nearly incapacitating levels and he sort of thought he'd lost the ability to move his injured arm.

Then touch again. Firm but gentle. Probing but careful. Reassuring. "Easy, Sam."

It was his father's voice, deep and sure, rumbling in his chest like the Impala's engine under the hood. "Can you open your eyes?"

There was a difference between ability and desire, though, and surely his dad knew that. But his dad had asked--he'd _asked_ and since when did his dad _ask _him anything? Orders, sure. But requests, especially ones so laden with concern and hope--

Sam's eyes were opening before he had the presence of mind to stop them or even consider if that was the best course of action, all things considered.

His father was kneeling outside the car door, looking at Sam, rubbing light circles on the shoulder of Sam's good arm. "Sammy?"

Sam blinked, focusing his gaze. His father's face hovered closer now, craning down to look Sam in the eyes. "Dad?" he said, not because he doubted his father's presence--on the contrary, his father's presence was unmistakable, but because--

Was it over? Was it really over?

"How do you feel?"

Sam took a moment with that one, tried to separate the pains throughout his body, old and new, searing and throbbing, but they all blurred together. Lying was easier. Not lying--fibbing, downplaying the truth, selective reality. "Okay."

His dad actually laughed at that, ducking his head and running a hand through his hair. When he looked up, the lines were crinkled around his eyes, which looked oddly wet. "Sam, you've got a gash that will need stitches on your arm, a broken wrist, a handful of bruised ribs, and more bruising than I've ever seen on one of you boys in my life. And you feel _okay_?"

Sam considered that for a second, thinking about the catalogue of injuries and then gave up the argument. "Relatively speaking," he said, which was the truth this time. He swallowed, shifting his weight tentatively. "Better than before."

"Oh, you mean _before_ you got kidnapped? Or before you escaped? Or maybe before you charged in to take on an armed man by yourself?" There was humor in that, humor and fear and something maybe like pride.

To Sam's credit, it had seemed less ridiculous when he'd come up with the plan--and he'd truly expected Dean to get out of the closet, though logically, Sam wasn't sure why. "They wanted to kill you," Sam said, trying to remember. "I couldn't let them--I mean, I couldn't just--" His voice broke off as a cough choked him out, ripping through his chest.

He bent over, or tried to, and his father's hands shifted to support him before Sam face planting right out the open door. "Just--take it easy," his father said curtly. "If one of those ribs is broken--"

Sam closed his eyes tight and willed the pain away, his body going limp against the leather. It didn't work this time. Without the adrenaline, without the need to _act_, he felt like he was fading--and fast. "They had Dean," he murmured, keeping his eyes closed. "You weren't here yet...they had Dean."

His father shook him a little, enough to pry his eyes open. "Stay with me, son. Until we get you looked at. We're nearly ready to go," his father said. "What happened?"

Two words--such a simple question--and Sam didn't even know where to begin. He swallowed, trying to stay awake a little longer. "What part?" he asked.

"Hell, Sammy, _any_ part."

Then his brother was there, standing over both of them, and it occurred to Sam for the first time since coming to that time had passed. Not just a few seconds, but a lot of time. Maybe not hours, but time Sam couldn't remember, time--

"Dean," he breathed. His brother in peril--that memory was clear enough. "You okay?"

His brother looked a little flabbergasted at that. "You're the one who charged in here like Rambo," he said.

His father's eyes narrowed traveling from Dean to Sam again. "Did you even have any weapons?" he asked.

Sam thought about that, and remembered the log, though he couldn't remember what had happened to it. He had come in with it, through the window in the bedroom. But somehow he'd dropped it.

His eyes roamed the woods, as if they held an answer, and then he became vaguely aware that something was off. Not just him and the pain and the guys locked in the cabin, but what had Dean been doing?

Straining, Sam took in his surroundings a bit clearer. There was still woods, that much was certain, but they were in some kind of parking lot, a pull off maybe. How far away from the cabin were they? Had his father carried him? Then what had Dean been carrying?

Looking over his shoulder, Sam saw the answer. A kid--stretched out on the seat opposite him. The not-Sam. "Who's he?" Sam asked, only vaguely aware that he'd neglected his father's question.

Dean and his dad glanced beyond Sam before looking at each other briefly. "It's a kid," Dean said, trying to sound nonchalant and failing. "When they--lost you, they took him instead."

Sam thought about that, tried to make sense of it, and the conclusion came to him like a bowling ball. Concern flared up, because suddenly there was a loose end Sam hadn't anticipated. He tried to push himself up using his elbows. "They used him instead?" Sam asked, needing to see him now. "But--so--it's my fault? He's just some kid and he's hurt and it's my fault?"

His dad restrained him easily and Sam lacked the strength to fight him. "It's no one's fault but the guys who did this."

Sam's eyes went wide again. "They wanted to kill you," he blurted, and the memories were coming faster now, clearer. "That's why they took me, to kill you. I was bait. And that's why I had to get away, because I couldn't be bait for you. I couldn't do that, I didn't want to. So I got out."

"We've figured that much out," his father said. "And you did the right thing, getting away. But why'd you come back?'

"To stop them," Sam said, his words tumbling out now. "I wanted to stop them because they didn't need me to hurt you, I didn't think, and I didn't know where else to go, so I came back here and I saw Dean--I saw him and I saw--I saw--that kid--and I had to do something. You weren't here, Dad. You weren't _here_."

It was dangerously close to a whine and Sam realized that his eyes were tearing. He didn't know why, couldn't stop it, but it hurt and he had been scared and he'd tackled a grown man with little more than a _stick_. A big stick maybe, Sam couldn't totally remember, but a stick wasn't exactly high up in the repertoire of effective Winchester weapons.

A stick. What had he been thinking? He risked his life, Dean's life, and--

"Just take it easy, okay?" his dad said, softer than Sam expected. Worried. "We'll talk about it later."

Not a threat. A promise. No, a reassurance.

Was everyone suffering from a head wound today or was Sam just completely out of it? His dad should be angry, about the kidnapping, about Sam's botched escape, about the sloppy rescue--

The sloppy rescue. One of Sam's stupidest moves ever. He'd resorted to lunging and swinging blindly and for all the good it did him--the initial scuffle might have gone his way had he not landed on his sore ankle, which had prompted given out and put him on the wrong end of the gun.

How had he even gotten out of the way? Sam should have been dead right now--from that, from the trek in the woods, from the kidnapping. The fact that he was even breathing was a testament that there had to be some kind of God out there after all.

"Sam, focus," his father said, a little sterner now. "You're doing okay, but I want to watch that head wound."

A wall. He'd been thrown into a wall. Or rather rammed. He needed to work on his sparring. When he'd lost the stick, he'd jumped on the guy's back but he sucked at choke holds--those were Dean's thing--and he'd used the stick after all. After the guy had almost shot him and Sam found the thing again. Primitive but effective. Boys apparently didn't need their toys. One clean swing was all he'd needed. One clean swing and the guy was down like a ton of bricks.

After pummeling Sam, of course. Sam couldn't forget that, what with the swelling on the other side of his face and a new stitch of pain seated on his hip.

"Dude, Sammy," his brother was saying. "You don't want to make Dad mad when he's in such a chipper mood. Not even you could be that contrary."

Sam wasn't sure about that. "Jerk," he breathed, because he couldn't think of much else.

Dean grinned. "I'd call you bitch, but not today. I'll wait till we get you checked out so I can know all the things I get to help you rehab."

Right, by kicking his ass. Sam knew that tone.

"You ready to go?" his father asked, but he wasn't talk to him.

Dean glanced over Sam's shoulder and Sam remembered not-Sam again. "He's still out," Dean said. "Bleeding has slowed, but--yeah. We should move."

"You sure they're secure?"

"They were both tied to chairs in the back room when we left, which, trust me, is just about impossible to break out of. And the younger guy's so freaked by the way you kicked his ass that I don't think he'd run even if he could."

"That one doesn't have the heart for this kind of thing," his father said. "There's a reason that they sent him after me. He'd be closer to pulling the trigger on me than either one of you boys."

"Yeah, well, I'm just glad you got here," Dean said. "Between Sammy passing out cold and the kid in shock, I wasn't sure how I was going to get out of here."

Sam hadn't even thought of that. He hadn't thought about getting out of there. He should have, though. Dean would have. His dad would have. His dad _did_. His dad had overtaken the other kidnapper and if Sam had just used his head and waited, he could have helped his dad and not ended up all over the floor. And spared himself a lot if trouble. That was so typical, Sam thought. His dad always told him he needed to get the big picture, that he didn't always know _everything. _

_Stupid_, Sam thought_. __Stupid, stupid, stupid_.

"You sit in the back, watch them both," his father said. "I'll drive."

Sam's self-recriminations stilled. Sweet words. Words of rescue. Of release. Of _over_.

After all of this, after _all_ of it, kidnapping and escape and pain and cold and rescues, it was finally over.

"Just relax, Sammy," his father said, his hand ghosting through Sam's hair now, settling on his face gently. "It's almost over, kiddo." Sam might have protested, might have scowled for being treated like a baby, but it felt so warm, so _safe_, that for once, Sam didn't even have to ask why.

-o-

Light.

There was light.

Bright, which he supposed light was by definition, but really bright. Sun stuffed artificially into a box and then left to ferment for years before opening kind of bright. Sterile bright, like someone was trying to scorch the world back into a pristine condition.

Either that or annihilate everything.

Or maybe just Dean.

Because the light seemed to be focused on him. Searing and effusive, pounding on his eyelids as if asking for permission to come in.

He was personifying light. Something had to be wrong. But hey, wouldn't his English teacher be so very proud.

Noise.

Voices.

Professional. Adult. Unfamiliar.

If there was ever a time that Dean longed for coherent thought, now was about it.

"...vitals are low, but the O2 is helping. I can't tell if there's any vascular damage or not, but at least the bullet didn't seem to nick any vital organs."

"No, but it got something, all right. This kid's a bloody mess. We're looking at a fairly substantial amount of blood loss. How many units do we have in?"

So maybe coherent thought wasn't the way to go. Because that sounded like doctor-speak, medical jargon in its finest, which meant there was some poor unsuspecting patient getting all hooked up and ready to be wheeled off, which would be rather surreal if he thought about it, all that action and nonsense and to not know what was going on because you were laid out on some table with bright lights--

Bright lights.

It clicked.

He was the patient on the table. That was the bright light. The doctors, in all their professionalism and medicalese, were talking about him.

His gunshot wound.

And to think his mother worried about him working under the hood of a car. She was paranoid about it, about it staying up. She thought it could accidentally collapse and crush him.

Or Rory and her fear of stairs in winter. It was random, but true, Rory didn't like walking down them at all, not outside with the snow and slush, not inside with the monster boots she liked to don. _"It's just so cumbersome, those shoes,"_ she told him once. _"Good for traipsing, of course, because you don't want wet socks all day, but not so good for stairs. One wrong step and you're down the whole flight. Seems like a perfectly horrible way to die. Snapping your neck. Smacking your head. I think I'd rather snap my neck. Quick, painless..." _

Pain. Dean remembered pain--

Like a gunshot. A gunshot and being punched and--

He coughed suddenly, eyes blinking and he was conscious whether he liked it or not.

And with consciousness came memory and with memory came immediacy and with immediacy came _pain_.

"He's awake," someone said, but Dean could see who. His eyes were still trying to make sense of this place, of the light in his face and the hands--all over him--and the cold air on his skin.

He was naked. Naked and cold and it all _hurt_.

"Dean, can you hear me?"

Dean swallowed, blinking again, and a head bobbed in front of the light. Someone he didn't recognize. Dark skin, kindly features. Brown eyes. Earnest.

Rory had nice eyes. But hers were blue. And _it hurt_.

"Dean?"

He licked his lips, noticing for the first time something on his face. An oxygen mask. "I...," he tried, his eyes roaming, trying to see something. He caught flashes of metal and of bloody gauze and the room smelled like disinfectant.

"Do you remember where you are? Do you remember what happened?"

Too many questions, too fast, like Rory when she was nervous or Lorelai at any point in time. But those were fun questions, or funny ones; not these, not ones that seemed important.

Home. He wasn't sure where he was, but he knew where he wasn't. He wasn't home, he wasn't at the market or at Luke's or at Rory's. He wasn't even in the cabin anymore, and just like Rory and his mom and Clara weren't here, neither were Kenny and Ryan and...that other guy, the Dean guy--

The rescue that wasn't meant for him.

But a rescue nonetheless.

So this was--

"Hospital?" he asked, his voice thin and raking hard against his throat.

"Good guess," the doctor smiled.

Hospital and rescue, two factors that didn't quite compute anymore, no more than kidnapping and gunshot. None of it made any sense, not even for a kid who had grown up in Chicago, especially not for a kid who lived in Stars Hollow and dated Rory Gilmore.

Funny, though, how he defined himself by everything that he was associated with. The bag boy. Rory's boyfriend. Clara's big brother. The kid who was kidnapped.

But hey, at least it wasn't personal. Rory could break up with him and people glared at him for days. Some new kid rolled to town and Dean just happened to be lucky enough to have the girl to make his life hell. Rory couldn't say I love you, Jess couldn't get his head out of his butt, Clara couldn't see beyond _please, Dean, please_, and two random guys couldn't hold onto their kidnapping victim long enough.

It wasn't _him_. It was someone else, _anybody_ else, and suddenly Dean wouldn't have been surprised if the doctors told him that they needed to change rooms because someone more important was on their way.

They were talking to him, Dean realized distantly. More hands and more voices and Dean couldn't even remember how he got to the hospital and he sort of gave up caring. He was just tired.

Maybe they were right. Not just the kidnappers, not just Kenny and Ryan. But Richard Gilmore and Jess and Lorelai. That they were right that he wasn't worth taking, that he wasn't worth dating, that he was too stupid to matter, too aimless to be important, too pathetic to even be worth telling the truth to.

He could remember Rory in the flush of moonlight, tucked next to him in the car he was going to build for her. He'd planned it all out, saved his wages for two months to buy the hulk, and there she was, next to him, with him, like that was all that mattered. It had been the defining moment, a moment when he had looked at all the options, all the pros and all the cons, and then decided he didn't care about anything but the very basic fact that he _knew_ what he wanted.

So he'd taken the leap, told Rory he loved her, and landed flat on his face. Like the first kiss, the first conversation, the first dance--all of it. Dean took chances and failed, even though sometimes it worked out after all.

Some chances were worth taking.

Others weren't.

So Dean closed his eyes and didn't know if this one was worth it or not.

-o-

As far as hospitals went, Dean knew he probably shouldn't complain too much about this one. After all, help had been prompt and professional and they'd been lax enough on the rules to keep Dean and his dad fully in the loop on Sam and even in the know on the kid, seeing as they did bring him in and all.

And really, the only measure that really mattered in the end was if Sammy was okay. Sure, that wasn't really the hospital's fault, what condition the Winchesters arrived in, but it greatly changed Dean's attitude toward the place.

The verdict on Sam was good. The kid was banged around pretty badly. The ankle was sprained but the wrist was actually broken so Sam would be sporting a cast for a bit. The cut on the arm had needed stitching and the blood loss had been just enough to make the kid woozy and earn him a couple of bags of fluid courtesy of the state of Connecticut. The ribs were badly bruised, along with the rest of Sam and the concussion was nothing to ignore and there was dehydration and the earliest hints of exposure.

And to think: Sam had rescued _him_.

What the kid didn't have in style, he excelled with in sheer determination. To the point of stupidity.

It had been a mixed blessing on the car ride in to have Sam only semi-aware. It was hard to see his normally bright kid brother incapacitated in any form, but he was damn straightforward with his answers when he was like that.

It was quite a story. From the abduction on the way home from school (which his father offered a reproving look for being so sloppy) to the harsh beatings and fledging escape (a window, of all things, but at least Sam could run) to the foolhardy move to come back (though by that time, Dean didn't doubt that Sam's reasoning skills had taken a serious hit or two).

Sam told it all to them, without hesitation. He was slumped in the front seat, resting heavily against the seat back, eyes heavy and voice thick. Their dad had driven, white-knuckled and faster than the speed limit.

But only partly for Sam. Partly for the other kid bleeding in the back with Dean.

Normally Sam would be back there under Dean's watchful eye, but the other kid was in a bad way and getting worse. Taking him in was a risk, as was anything that brought Winchesters in close contact with a world of respectability and legality. But the kid was shot and he was scared and he was just a kid and Dean had insisted.

Luckily the kid looked so much like Sam that their father acquiesced. The fact that they were already making a hospital run probably didn't hurt either.

It had been strange, of course, having some other kid share the space with them, to worry about someone else, to try to stem the flow of someone else's blood. They saved people, that much was true, but they were a tight knit family, even in their conflict. It was an intimate lifestyle, and Dean rarely opened up to outsiders for any reason.

But this kid--this wee Dean, this alternate Sam--this was Dean's fault in so many ways. But it was more than that. Guilt could have pushed him to drag the kid to a hospital, but to sit there, in a waiting room, looking out for him--well, that was another issue entirely, no matter how hard Dean tried to spin it in his own mind.

He'd kept pressure on the gunshot and tried not to look at the bruised face and wonder. Not just about who he was and what he did. But about what the kid was losing today.

Kidnapping, getting shot--true, it wasn't ghost hunting, but it was still the same sharp loss of innocence that no one deserve. Ever. The same kind of thing that Dean was still reeling from even sixteen years later.

And there was just no reason for it. That was the hard part to take. Because this kid didn't fit any pattern. He wasn't chosen for any reason other than really bad luck and some damn coincidental genetics.

He hated that. He hated that it was his fault and his dad's and Sam's and that some other kid out there might not get the apple pie life he deserved. The one Sam seemed so hell-bent on wanting for himself.

Maybe he was just getting sentimental in his old age.

Either way, there he was, in the waiting room. Sam was already settled and asleep, their father keeping steady vigil by his side with that way of his. His father had something to say about all this, and from the anxious set of his father's shoulders, Dean knew it wasn't good. Dean had seen it enough to know--and to not look forward to it on his own or Sam's behalf.

So Dean was here. In the waiting room. It was stupid because he wasn't family, but he needed to know.

The brunette two chairs down from him was flipping through a magazine, sighing heavily before she closed it abruptly and looked up.

Dean had been too busy checking her out to look away.

She smiled. Not flirtatious. Tired. "You would think they'd try to keep up with some more up-to-date reading material," she said with a sardonic expression. "I mean, people sitting here are already tired and freaked and everything else and what is offered to placate them? Old news. I mean, who wants to read old news. Because, well, it's old. And sometimes I like old news, I do, because it's sort of like a flashback or something. But this isn't even old enough news for that. This is like only somewhat old news. The news that just got old so it's not old enough to be new again. Which is no way to keep people occupied when they're already worrying in a waiting room."

So this one was a talker. Which, maybe not so much his thing on most occasions, because too much talking meant not enough of other things. But even sitting down, Dean could see her curves and the hint of smooth skin under her v-neck top. Older than he would have first guessed, but not too old by any stretch of the imagination.

He smiled back. "You got to hit the oncology floor for the new magazines," Dean said. He shrugged. "Not the most uplifting place in the world, so I guess they figure if anyone will need a real distraction, it's them."

She seemed to consider that. "That's some pretty rare knowledge," she said. "You come here often?"

Dean glanced around. "Here? No," he said. "But I'm no stranger to hospitals."

She raised her eyebrows. "A man of danger?"

He snorted a little. "Something like that."

"Well, since you appear to be in one piece tonight, what brings you here this time?"

It was chitchat of the most polite variety but it wasn't the reminder Dean wanted. "My brother's here."

She looked sorry she asked. "I'm sorry. Wow. Dumb question, right? I mean, a guy's in a hospital, and I ask why he's here. It's not like a business or pleasure question. It's like a why-your-life-sucks question." She paused, seeming to consider exactly what she was saying. Wincing, she continued, "I'd like to say that usually I'm not quite this, well, neurotic, but I'd hate to lie to you."

That made him smile. "My brother's fine," he said. "Just some observation."

This seemed to make her relax a little. "So why are you hanging out here? Just here to check out the old news?"

"Maybe just for some interesting conversation."

"A hospital pick up line," she exclaimed. "Seems like there should be a joke. A heart and a liver walked into a bar."

"What? And the heart says only one of us is getting out of here alive?"

"Smart move by the heart then, taking a liver to a bar. Talk about knowing the weak spot." She stopped, shaking her head. "I'd also like to say that usually I'm not this bad at making jokes, but a little more time sitting next to me will make me a liar."

It was like this chick lacked the filter between her brain and her mouth. Like Sam when he got into a fight with their dad, only in the most positive twist.

"Yeah, well," he said. "Hospitals aren't really a place where we get to see people at their best."

She sighed at that, leaning back on her chair. "No kidding. I hate these places. All their equipment and the doctors with their clipboards."

"You're freaked out by the clipboards?"

She looked incredulous. "Um, yeah. It's like they keep secret notes on them in this secret language that no one else can understand. For all we know, they're really just passing silly notes to one another and not paying attention to our physical needs at all."

"Interesting conspiracy," he said with a nod.

"Normally I'd work harder to be a bit more Holden Caulfield for you, but hey, we've already established I'm not at my best."

Dean couldn't even imagine what her best was at this point. "So why are _you _here?" he asked. Then looked a bit apologetic. "One bad question deserves another."

"Very true," she agreed, though a bit reluctantly. "It's my daughter."

Her daughter. She had a daughter? Dean hadn't seen a ring--he'd done the single mom circuit before, but she did _not_ look like she had a daughter. But hey, with eyes like that and that head of hair, surely the little thing would be pretty darn cute.

"Actually my daughter's boyfriend."

So much for _little_. "I'm sorry," Dean managed to say.

She sighed again. "It's such a mess," she said. "Rory--that's my kid--she's been freaking out for the last two days ever since Dean didn't show up for work. He's not like that, you know. Irresponsible. I mean, sure, once they went out and accidentally stayed out all night, but this is the kid who calls to check in like five times a day. He's never late. He's never too early. He catches our spiders and changes our water bottle and he just doesn't _miss _things. His parents didn't know where he was, and no one had seen him, and Rory, you can imagine, was just beside herself. Made up all these fliers, even though everyone in town knew we were looking for him. And search parties and the six o'clock news and everything we could think of but he was just _gone_."

This sounded familiar. This sounded really familiar. Was she talking about--Dean--wee Dean? Of all the coincidences and damned good luck.

She ran a hand through her hair. "And then just out of the blue. We were with his dad when the call came. Someone had found him, brought him in, and here we are. I don't know what happened to him or how he is or anything. Rory went to go see if she could find Dean's family and see if they know anything, and sorry--" she cut herself off with a sheepish grin. "I'm rambling. I do that, just usually not so personal. You're just catching me at a really bad time."

"So wait, you're here for a kid named Dean? Who was kidnapped?"

The woman cocked her head. "Yeah, I mean. Did you hear about it on the news?"

"No," Dean said. "I mean, yes. But, I--well, I brought him in."

She stared at him, blankly, before she looked vaguely suspicious and attempting to cover it with a smile. "That's. Not very funny."

Dean just shook his head. He probably should have kept his mouth shut. Hell, he probably should have just stayed with Sam. But she was his ticket to answers. They didn't need the risk of publicity more than they already had. They didn't, but--he needed to know. He didn't leave a job undone. He straightened, leaning closer. "Tall kid. Ridiculous looking hair. His name was Dean, he said. Dean--Forester."

Her eyes narrowed, her expression guarded. "Yeah."

"My dad and I--we were looking for my brother and we stumbled across this Dean kid, too. He'd been kidnapped. In a cabin, in the woods."

Her eyes were still suspicious, but widening, doubt edging in. "You--_you_ found Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean said. "I've been lurking around trying to catch a glimpse of how the kid was doing, but--"

"You found him? You're the guy? The reason he's back? I mean, is he okay? How was he? What happened? Who had him?"

Too many question. A lot of questions. Understandable questions. Dean would give what he could--and hope for the best in return. "Like I said, we found him in a cabin. He was tied up and--well, he'd been clocked a few times. The guys who took him, though," Dean tried to explain, but swallowed hard against the lump in his throat. He looked down. Admitting to rescue was one thing. Admitting to the rest--not so much.

"The guys who took him--they what? What about them?"

Resolved, Dean looked up. She would find out sooner or later. Ignorance was only bliss when it wasn't on a crash course with shattering anyway. "They shot him."

It was not the news she'd been expecting, clearly. Not that Dean could blame her. No one expected gunshots or kidnapping. She seemed to be talking herself out of it, into some form of denial. "They--they shot him? Like with a sedative? Or like glamor shots? Or--?"

Dean almost hated to tell her. She didn't look innocent by any stretch of the imagination, but there was something pure about her, something essentially _good_ that just seemed to wrong to dampen.

But she was going to find out. "Like a gunshot," he said. "I tried to stop it, but I couldn't--I wasn't fast enough."

It came out as full of self loathing as it sounded in his head.

Her mouth flattened, her face losing all of its humor. "I--I'm sorry," she said, her brow creased. "Is he--I mean, is he okay? I mean, besides being shot. Or I mean--I don't even know. He was shot?"

She was still making sense of it in her head, and Dean wasn't sure there was much he could do to help her get there--or if there even was anything. "He was alive when we got him here," Dean offered. "But that's why I'm here. I want to make sure he's okay."

She had no response to that, and she seemed to have pulled into herself.

"I'm sorry," Dean offered again. "About the kid. I really am. But, if it helps, he seems like a tough kid."

That made her smile a little, a nostalgic quirk of her mouth. "Tenacious is a better word for it," she said. "That's a kid who knows what he wants and goes after it without thinking twice. Sometimes it can come across as obsessive or blind but underneath it come from something sweet. Well intentioned. He's, like, the best first boyfriend. I just--he doesn't deserve this. Kidnapped. Shot. He doesn't."

She was shaking now, her hands running trembling through her hair. He moved deftly a seat over, putting a gentle hand on her arm. "Hey," he said. "No one deserves it, I know."

Dabbing the corners of her eyes, she forced a laugh. "He's not even my kid," she said. "Not even my boyfriend, I know. But he's just such a good kid. He's been so good to Rory--and to me. I was so afraid about that, her first boyfriend. And Dean--he had his moments where I wanted to string him up by his intestines. But he always proved himself. I mean, how many first boyfriends call when they say they will? Will do chores at other people's houses? And--_kidnapped_. Shot? This stuff doesn't happen here, not to kids like that. Does it?"

The question he wanted to say no to, the question he wanted to scoff at and reject and write off as inane and silly. Because it _shouldn't_. It shouldn't.

But it did. Dean Forester had to learn it the hard way, and so did she. So did every person in that diner, every person in that market, every person in that town.

All because a hunter died and his kids didn't know how to deal with it.

It wasn't fair.

But it happened.

She was looking at him, wide eyes, pretty face. And Dean told her the only thing he could. "Sometimes it does."

Her jaw clenched at that a little, and Dean could see her eyes moisten. She ducked her head, dabbing again. "Just when I thought the nightmare was over," she said. "It's like, as long as you're searching you sort of hold out this weird hope that everything will be okay. That he just got waylaid helping some little old lady cross the road or something. And all the time you spend trying _not_ to think about what could go wrong."

"It could have been worse," Dean offered, remembering the gun and the callous voice _holler if he dies_.

She threw her hands up, a little hysterical. "But he's been _shot_. I mean, it was one thing for him to be kidnapped, but--shot? My kid's boyfriend? It's just--so--I don't know. Scary?"

Dean couldn't help but laugh. "I would say scary might be an understatement." So often he didn't have to deal with this--the aftermath. He knew about horrors and deaths and disappearances, and sometimes he did talk to grieving widows or confused relatives. It happened, but it was an act he pulled, a gig to get more info. Part of the job.

This was just--not. This was just so much harder.

She met his eyes and returned his smile. Shaking her head, she seemed to try to get a handle on herself. "Rory is off, talking to Dean's family, so when she gets back, she might know something new. I know his mother okay. But--wow. I can hardly even think. It's sort of like mental overload, like when my parents used to give me the list of instructions for all the things I was supposed to keep in mind for a dinner party. You know, who to talk to, for how long, which fork to use first, where not to stick my napkin--at a certain point, my brain just couldn't handle it."

"Where to stick your napkin?"

"I know," she said. "I mean, you think it doesn't matter, right? It's a napkin, nothing big. But there's a real etiquette involved and apparently something about putting it too low on one knee which is an open suggestion that you're an easy lay."

Dean considered that. "I'll have to keep that in mind."

She barked a laugh. "I didn't even thank you," she said finally. "For--finding him."

"I didn't do anything."

"No," she said. "You did. You found Dean. And I know you probably don't know anything about him, but he's a good kid. There were a lot of people worried about him. And--just thanks."

He hadn't done it for thanks. He hadn't done it for the kid at all. He'd been there for Sam, plain and simple, and wee Dean had just been caught in the crossfire. Literally.

So to be thanked--after everything--it was hard to hear. Harder still to accept.

Suddenly, Dean felt out of place. Not just comforting her, but here. Waiting for news on this kid. This kid who had a girlfriend and a job and people who cared about him. A whole town looking for him. And who was Dean to all of this? Who was he to care at all?

He shifted, pulling his arm away. "It was nothing," he said. He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, I should probably get back to my brother."

She nodded quickly--too quickly. "Yeah, of course," she agreed. "I'm glad he's okay--your brother."

"Thanks," Dean said. "So, um. If you hear anything and see me around--" He let it hang awkwardly.

"Definitely," she said. "You know, you should come to Stars Hollow. You and your family. That's where Dean's from. Now, I mean. I think he's from Chicago or something but his family moved there awhile ago so I guess he's not from Stars Hollow but that's entirely beside the point. All I'm trying to say is that we'd love to thank you. All of us. For Dean."

Being a hero. Hunting things, saving people. The family business.

But they didn't do it for thanks. They didn't tell anybody about it.

He just smiled. "Who knows?"

She smiled back, and he could see it in her eyes: she knew he'd never come. "Hey, I never caught your name," she said.

"Dean."

She looked perplexed. "No, I meant, _your_ name."

"My name is Dean," he clarified. "Hell of a coincidence, I know."

A bemused expression crossed her face. "Well, Dean, maybe I just don't believe in coincidences."

Funny, because neither did he.

He just shrugged his shoulder, letting his smile linger, before turning and walking back down the hall.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: So, this is the resolution. Knowledge of Gilmore Girls is probably most beneficial for this chapter, but I think you'll catch the general drift of it without. As I close this out, I first want to thank Tyranusfan for the beta, and letting me rant about the injustice done to Dean F. Also thanks to sendintheclowns who is like the little devil on my shoulder saying _write, write!_ And thanks to you who have read and reviewed. It's a cheesy sort of fic idea, but I had a blast with it, and I'm glad some of you did, too.

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CHAPTER EIGHT

They were getting ready to run.

Sam knew all the signs. The way his father's knee jiggled as he sat perched at Sam's bedside. The way his brother's jacket was still on. The careful way his father perused Sam's chart at the end of the bed. All preparation for a fast and quiet-as-possible exit. Hospitals, after all, were not so fond of patients that didn't have insurance and were even less fond of those who tried to pawn of the insurance of others.

More than that, the doctor had joked on his last rounds. Had told Sam that he was fine, that he was going to be sore and have a headache and wear the cast and all that wind down stuff, so they were out of reasons to stay. It wasn't that Sam wanted to go, but just that he didn't know what else to expect. They'd been pulling this same trick whenever things got tough, whenever teachers started asking questions, whenever landlords started to grow weary. Whenever they ended up in the hospital. Because apparently Winchesters were as hard to track as the ghosts they hunted, which had always been part of Sam's problem.

The lack of roots. The lack of identity. The lack of finishing out anything except a hunt. Those were the things Sam had never even had enough of to know fully what he missed.

His father had been mostly silent, which wasn't totally unusual. John Winchester was many things, but sociable wasn't one of them. But Sam had to admit, he was still surprised. Not for the lack of chitchat but for the lack of discussion.

Sam was okay now. He was clearly on the mend. The injuries were mostly superficial and with some fluids and rest and warmth, Sam was on his way to a full recovery, the cast on his wrist notwithstanding. So where was the discourse on Sam's failures? Where was the promised talk about how to prevent this from happening again? Where were the reprimands for getting caught, for getting hurt, for being reckless and stupid and all of that?

Now that Sam was warm and hydrated, he was expected it more than ever. Almost wanted it. To get it over with, to know what the price of all this was once and for all. The waiting for it was almost worse than getting it, almost worse than getting taken in the first place.

And how messed up was that? Only a Winchester would dread getting rescued more than getting taken. Luckily for him, he'd been too out of it while on the run to appropriately dread it. So this sojourn in the hospital--well, he was making up for lost time.

Dean was out, to ready the car or something else, Sam wasn't sure, so this seemed like the perfect time. His father had sat there and listened to the litany of Sam's injuries, had watched him sleep and rest for hours now, and hadn't said a word about any of it. Not about the kidnapping, about the rescue, about ending up in the hospital.

It was creepy, that's what it was. Creepy and unnerving and there was going to be consequences, and Sam just wanted to get it over and done with.

Sam swallowed. His dad always told him to own up to things like a man, so maybe that was what his dad was waiting for.

Pushing himself up on the bed, he shifted gently, trying not to disrupt his ribs. His wrist still throbbed a little, and the stitches itched, and his head was thick. Things were clearer now, of course, but the world was still a little too bright and a little too loud, but it was his ribs that bothered him most. Tight and achy, suffocating if he moved wrong--they would be the hardest part to recover from, even more cumbersome than the cast on his wrist.

Clearing his throat, he looked at his father.

Looking up from his journal, his father eyed him lightly.

"So," Sam said. "I, uh--I'm feeling better."

His father stared at him a moment before nodding. "The doctor says you're doing very well."

Sam nodded shortly. "So, we'll be going soon."

"No reason to stay," his father agreed. "You know we need to head before they catch on to anything."

Sam nodded again, looking down at his hands. A pause lapsed before Sam found his courage again. "I'm sorry," he blurted finally.

His father looked up at him, eyebrows raised. "You're sorry?"

Sam shrugged nervously. "For getting caught," he said. "I knew better than that. I did. I mean, they were human, and I let myself get taken and then that rescue--I just, even with my head being the mess that it was, I should have thought that through better, like you always tell me. I'll just, I mean, I know I need to not be so stupid--"

His father sighed, shaking his head. "I'm not mad about that."

"But you tell me, don't go in without backup. Don't go in when you're hurt. And now I screwed it up. I mean, a hospital visit? Doctors and the cops? And my wrist--"

"Sam, I'm not mad that you got hurt."

"But you always warn me, tell me that I should train so I don't get hurt."

Something hardened in his father's countenance. "You think that's why I have you train?"

Swallowing, Sam tried to find the trick to that question. "To make sure we can defend ourselves and--"

His father's laugh was breathy and incredulous. "This isn't some glorified self defense regimen."

Sam didn't know what to say, didn't have a clue.

His father leveled him with a stare. "This training--it's not just training. It's a life, Sam. A life we have to live--completely. It has to be everything you are at all times, no distractions."

The condemnation was harsh and swift. "I'll focus on it more--"

"Damn it, Sammy, that's not what this is about. This is about the fact that you escaped, you escaped, came back and saved your brother when you were beat to hell."

"I wasn't thinking straight," Sam stammered out softly in defense. "I was--cold and it hurt and--"

"And you're still apologizing for the wrong thing," his father ground out. "What you pulled off was nothing short of amazing. When you put your mind to something, you're unstoppable. So I've been sitting here wondering why you can never do it in training. Why you're never this good on the hunt."

Sam chest hurt, his head felt like it was going to explode because he knew the answer. He knew it and he knew why his dad was so mad.

"You're sixteen, Sam. You're sixteen and you're still acting like hunting is some kind of damn extra-curricular. Helpful, but not in the long run, right? Just like that debate tournament you snuck off to or that play you talked Dean into seeing you in. But hunting isn't debate. It's not a play. And I keep waiting for you to grow up, Sam, and I don't know what it'll take to make you do that."

He was right. For the second time in a week, Sam knew his dad was right. Hunting was never his thing. He didn't love it, didn't crave it like Dean. At best, it was a necessary inconvenience for Sam. At worst, it reminded him of how tenuous life was, how lonely. Everything else--the school, the clubs, the sports--had always been his necessary counterbalance to keep himself feeling sane, normal, and _safe_. That the world wasn't all evil and death. That there was purpose and meaning.

His father was watching him. "It has to stop. The studying, the clubs. It's too much of a distraction."

Sam's eyes went wide, his heart stilling. "No," he said, aware of the frantic tone of his voice. "I can do both, Dad. I can. I really can. You'll see. Just give me a chance."

His father's mouth was set, though. "I'm sorry, Sam."

But that wasn't what Sam wanted to hear. Because his dad was sorry that Sam hadn't figured it out on his own. His dad was sorry that Sam couldn't fall in line with a smile. His dad was sorry that Sam had to give things up, but he was sorry in the way that a mother is sorry for yelling at her toddler for trying to touch a hot stove.

His dad wasn't sorry for how much it hurt. He wasn't sorry that asking Sam to give up school and the clubs and all of that was like asking Sam to stop breathing.

Apparently Sam wasn't the only one who was sorry for all the wrong things.

Just like that, the pains felt worse. His throbbing head threatened to darken his vision and the tightness in his chest made him feel like he was dying.

There were arguments he could make, of course. Lots of them. Fruitless arguments, no matter their validity. But today, after everything, he just couldn't do it. He'd fought for his way out of all of it, and he was too tired to fight his way out of this. The bitterness, the hurt--were fights for another day.

He slumped, rolling away a little bit. In all of it, when he was tied to a chair or locked in a room or running through the woods--he'd never felt as trapped as he did right then.

His father stood, hovering for a second, before saying, "I'm going to go make sure we have everything in order. Be ready to move when we get back."

Sam didn't look up. He didn't have to.

He didn't move until the sound of his father's footsteps faded away.

In the absence, Sam unclenched, releasing the tension in his body he didn't realize he'd been holding. It was a bittersweet thing, his family. To be so protected, so watched after, and yet feel like no on was taking care of him at all. To know without a doubt that they were coming, but to have to accept they'd never meet him halfway.

There was a knock at the door, a short rap, and Sam startled, rolling over to look at the doorway.

In it a girl was framed. About his age, long brain hair, and wide blue eyes. "Dean!" she said, sounding breathless and surprised and relieved all at once.

She was a little young for Dean. "Dean's not here," he muttered.

Her brows stitched together and she frowned a little. "No, I mean. You're--you're not." Realization settled over her features. "You look _just_ like him."

It was a rare comment. Most people didn't think he looked anything like his brother, and it was something his brother loved to rub in when the girls were fawning all over him. "Uh. Thanks?"

"No, I mean, you look like Dean."

It was just plain getting wearisome now. He was tired, he was miserable, and he just wanted to sleep and this girl just would _not_ leave him alone. "How do you even know Dean?" Hitting up girls in the hospital was not beyond the realm of possibility for his brother, but they hadn't even been there twenty-four hours. And this girl looked no more than sixteen. Maybe his concussion wasn't as healed as he'd thought.

"He's my boyfriend," she explained. "And you look _just _like him. Like creepy like him. Not that you look creepy or that he looks creepy but that the similarity is creepy."

So she wasn't talking about Dean. Not his Dean, anyway. Some other Dean, some Dean who had the misfortune to look like him.

She was still standing there and still staring, a little awestruck, a little shell-shocked.

"Are you okay?" he asked because he had enough problems without crazy girls who thought he was their boyfriend.

"Oh. Yeah," she said. "I mean. Wow. You just have no idea how creepy this is. I mean, the entire idea of being here is creepy enough since, well, it's a hospital and my boyfriend is in it. And not just in it, but he had surgery and he was shot and he was kidnapped and all of that--"

In the long monologue, that much triggered. "Wait, your boyfriend was kidnapped?"

She blinked. "Yeah."

So that was the other kid. The not Sam. The not-Sam and the not-Dean. Which was now too much for his brain to handle.

"Do you--know him?"

"No," he said. He's seen the kid, yes. But they had apparently alternated awareness enough that there had never been any interaction between them.

"Oh," she said. Then she paused, studying him again. "I'm sorry. I know this is like ultra-freaky but normally I'm not nearly this stalkerish. It's just--wow. Have you ever heard the theory that everyone in the world has a double, someone who looks just like them?"

He scrunched his nose, and regretted it--the scabbing cuts on his face tugged painfully and his bruised eye ached. "No."

"I didn't believe it," she said. "Not until now. Like, seriously, they should write a case study about this. About the odds of two kids, who look so much alike, being in the same hospital. You have his nose--from profile anyway. And his chin. You totally have his chin."

He fought the urge to glare at her for reasons he couldn't quite fathom. She wasn't trying to be mean or annoying, but somehow he felt both hurt and annoyed. But glaring--it would give him too much of a headache. "It's my chin," he said. "And the odds of having a genetic double are slim."

"I know, but not nil," she said. "Seriously, if I were going to go into biology, I would totally get your number. To call you. Not for a date, because I obviously have a boyfriend, but to complete some kind of DNA analysis. You two would make a good thesis, I think. And for interviews, if you'd be up for that. Because I wonder about the similarities between the genetic code and other aspects of your lives beyond the physical."

"Like personality traits?" he asked before he could stop himself. There was no need encouraging her, since she clearly didn't need it, and her chatter wasn't helping his headache any. But the way she went on, the curious trail of her thoughts, he almost couldn't help himself.

"Right," she said, brighter now. "Like, do you like cars? Or maybe hockey? He's also got a really good work ethic."

Cars--that was Dean's thing. Hockey--too costly to even pretend like it was an option. Work ethic--yeah, as long as she didn't ask his dad. "No. I--I've got a lot of chores at home." Chores, training--tomato, tomah-to, and Sam was too tired to care.

She looked disappointed with that. "Oh. Of course. I mean, lots of people do. It would still be interesting, though."

Interesting. To compare how normal her boyfriend was and how not normal he was. To drive home just how much Sam didn't get to do. How Sam would never have time for hobbies like that, how he would never get to stay on a team or play two seasons in a row. How he could never have a girlfriend--or any friend--who looked for him.

The kid may have gotten kidnapped and shot, but Sam just hoped he realized how lucky he was.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Interesting."

"Well, um. Sorry for disturbing you. This has been--surreal. In a nice way."

"Surreal," he said.

She flashed one more grin, ducking her head awkwardly and tucking her hair behind her ear, before walking out the door.

Sam wasn't sure why that hurt quite as much as it did.

Curling onto his side, he closed his eyes and waited for his dad to come back and sort of wished he didn't have to.

-o-

Dean had never seen so many people in his life. Doctors with their stethoscopes. Nurses with BP cuffs. Policemen with notebooks. By the time his parents saw him, he was too exhausted to talk to them at all. His mother had fretted over him, smoothly his sheets and fluffing his blankets like that somehow made some kind of difference. She fluttered around so much that it sort of made him dizzy and he closed his eyes just to make it all stop.

Each time he awoke, there was someone there. His mother, red eyes and Kleenex in hand. His father, steady and tired in the chair. Once, even Rory, trying to smile and talking but Dean couldn't quite make out what she was saying before he fell asleep again.

Always someone. He half expected to see Ryan or Kenny or first coming at him.

Sleep was a vague time, hazy impressions and distant sensations. It never seemed peaceful, always a soft veil of awareness that denied him true reprieve. And sometimes, Dean couldn't help but long for the pure oblivion afforded to him by Kenny's meaty fist.

That was masochistic, Dean knew. Even a little wrong. Rory would tell him about Stockholm Syndrome or Post Traumatic Stress and that really what he was experiencing was all quite normal. His mother would call for every doctor in the city to come check him out, to fix him. And Taylor would just want to know if this meant Dean was missing any more work.

Hence the reason he didn't want to deal with any of them. Maybe ever. At least not until his brain learned how to forget.

A classic case of denial. Could be a great case study. Not too complicated, very classic, broad appeal and easily accessible to a wide audience. Easy to get funding for, even easier to get approved. Could even make BookTV on CSPAN if it got published.

He needed to get Rory out of his head. Before he started making a pro/con list about whether or not to wake up.

Unfortunately, not even his body seemed to listen to him, and sleep was fading into awareness without his consent. His eyes were open before he was even aware that he was awake.

The room was filled with soft sunlight from behind the shaded window. It was warm, buzzing with machines, and it was quieter than he remember.

No parents. No Rory.

Just a figure in the chair at the foot of his bed.

At first, Dean didn't recognize him. He looked too young to be any kind of doctor or nurse and a little too laid back and bedraggled to be any kind of cop. He would hope they wouldn't let reporters in.

Then his eyes focused, straining through the swelling, and saw something familiar.

The guy from the cabin. Not Kenny or Ryan but the guy who came for him--or for the other kid.

"You're awake," the guy observed.

"Yeah."

The guy nodded, sitting forward a bit. "So how are you feeling?"

Typical question. One he'd been asked too many times before. So why he wanted to tell this guy the truth, he wasn't sure. "Foggy," Dean admitted. "But, still I feel like crap."

"Gunshots will do that to you."

Dean didn't have the energy to argue. He didn't have the energy for anything. Ropes and gags or IVs and monitors--they were all the same: constricting, limiting. "I guess."

"So," he continued. "Crazy couple of days, huh?"

As if that wasn't an understatement. Dean didn't know what was. And speaking of crazy: "Why are you here?"

The guy raised his eyebrows. "What, a guy can look out for his fellow Dean?"

"I thought I imagined that." At least part of him wished he had, along with everything else.

"I know I'm dreamy, but usually it's girls who do the dreaming."

Dean supposed that was supposed to be funny, but he didn't feel like laughing. "You still didn't tell me why you were here."

The other Dean sighed, leaning back in his seat. "Sure I did," he said. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

That would have meant something if he knew anything about who this guy was. "Well," he said. "The doctors say I should recover."

"Yeah, I know," the other Dean said. "You're a pretty tough kid. It's all in the name."

But Dean could remember crying. He could remember the fear and the helplessness. "Whatever."

"Huh, you may have the name like me, but you've got that emo brooding thing like my kid brother."

As if that was supposed to mean anything. He was tired of listening to other people ramble to make themselves feel better. His mother, his father, Rory. Random Deans who showed up when he got shot.

The guy shifted, licking his lips. "Look, I just wanted to say I'm sorry," he said finally. "I mean, I sort of got you shot."

Dean had wanted to forget that part. "You didn't have the gun."

"No, but I thought I could take that guy. I mean, I just wanted to get you out."

Nice thought, but Dean could remember the truth. That it wasn't personal. That he was a stand-in. "Did you find your brother?" he asked, more pointedly than he intended.

It wasn't lost on Dean. He raised his eyebrows, shifting again. "Yeah," he said. "He's fine, too. Looks like we're all going to walk away."

Gee. Lucky them.

The other Dean sighed. "Look, kid--"

"Dean," he said. "My name is _Dean_."

"Dean," he said slowly. "I know it's all pretty confusing for you right now. I mean, the kidnapping and the gunshot. That's not the way life usually goes. Not the way it should be. And I hate that you had to go through that. I mean, kids like you, you should be going to school and playing football, not worrying about psychos and look-a-likes."

He would have agreed with that two days ago. But now--now Dean didn't know what to think.

"Those guys are going away for a long time, you can be sure of that."

It didn't make him feel better. He wanted it too, but it didn't mean anything.

"Not that it means a lot, I'm sure," the other Dean continued. "And if I could have protected you from that, I would have. I mean, that's what I do. For Sammy, I mean. My kid brother. And seeing you like that, being there with you--I felt responsible for you, too."

Dean looked at his hands and wondered if he was expected to say something.

The other Dean rubbed his hands on his pants. "Anyway, we're leaving soon, my brother and my dad and me, and I just wanted to check in with you before we left."

Dean swallowed hard and fought the inexplicable urge to cry. The things this guy had seen, the time he'd seen him through. It was something Dean didn't want to remember and couldn't deny.

Pushing to his feet, the other Dean moved to the door. "Anyway, take care," he said. "You've got the whole town looking out for you. I mean, the things they did for you? Most people would give anything to be loved like that. So you'll be in good hands."

They hadn't told him that. About what had happened back home. Everyone had been so worried about what had happened to him that they hadn't taken the time to tell him about what they'd been through.

Somehow it made a difference.

"Wait," Dean said, surprised by the certainty in his own voice

The guy paused in the doorway, turning to look at him.

Dean moistened his lips, trying to figure out why he'd asked him to stay. "They looked for me?"

The guy just cocked his head. "You really have to ask?"

The look on Dean's face answered the other's Dean's question for him.

The other Dean sighed, a little. "Yeah, they looked for you," he said. "Entire search parties. Fliers and news bulletins. The whole works. They weren't the ones who found you, but that doesn't mean they weren't looking."

That had been his fear. Of dying alone. Of being forgotten.

He took a steadying breath, looking the other Dean straight in the eyes. "You seem to know about this kind of thing."

"I know more than my share."

Dean swallowed. "So, uh. Does it get better?"

The other Dean cocked his head. "Does what get better?"

Dean licked his lips, looking down and shrugging. "The way it feels right now." He glanced up at the guy, almost afraid to know.

The guy was quiet for a minute, thoughts flitting through his eyes, before he finally looked at Dean. "You'll find something--something that will make it easier. Something to look forward to. Never perfect. But better--hell, yeah."

Not quite as reassuring as he'd hoped, but more believable than everything else. Because he didn't know how to make sense of what happened, didn't know how to understand it, much less move beyond it. It seemed like the most real thing that had ever happened to him and yet no more substantial than a dream or passing fantasy.

"I was wrong before," the guy added. "Back in the cabin. Those guys may not have been after you, but it's always personal. And I know my rescue wasn't exactly ideal, but there were lots of others, you know. Looking for you. So just because it wasn't personal for them or even me, it was for a lot of other people."

So if he had died or if his body had never been found, people would have cared. Being Rory's boyfriend, Clara's big brother, the bag boy at the market--maybe those things mattered. They weren't a lack of identity maybe, but the evidence of connection. A testament of love.

He took an uneasy breath, offering the guy the closest thing to a smile he had to offer. "Thanks."

The guy just shrugged. "Anytime."

And just like that, he was gone.

The room was silent again, warm and empty all at once. He sighed, letting his eyes close, but did not reach for sleep this time. Something had happened to him, something more than just being kidnapped. It wasn't the act itself that bothered him, it was that loss of control, that loss of identity. As much as he wanted to deny it, to ignore what happened, the after effects were still there. The cold feeling of fear in his stomach. The raw inevitability in his mind. The dread that he would be gone and no one would care resounding through every synapse of his body.

But people did care. Even if they didn't get it, they cared. They had to.

"Dean! You're up!"

He didn't even have to look to recognize that voice. Bright and airy. Soft and cutting.

"Up-up, I mean," she clarified. "You were sort of up before but I think you were still mostly sleeping, which is totally cool. I would sleep, too, if I were you. I might sleep for a month and I don't even like to sleep that much."

He looked at her finally, the brightness of her smile, the light of her eyes. Her hair was up, pulled into a ponytail and her clothes were rumpled. He noticed for the first time that she looked tired and worn. She'd been worried about him. "Yeah, I'm up," he said, trying to muster a reassuring tone.

She made her way inside, a cup of coffee and a bottle of juice in her hand. "I went to get you coffee, but then I realized that maybe coffee wasn't the best thing for you. And, on top of that, if you were still sleeping, you might not wake up in time for it to be any good. So coffee was a pretty silly idea. And I didn't want to just get water because you can get water in the room so I thought maybe I'd try some juice, since milk sometimes doesn't agree with you." She held out the bottle. "I should have checked with your doctor first. About the fluids."

He reached out and took the bottle. It was apple cherry. "It looks great," he said. "Thanks."

She looked uncertain, a little nervous, and she seated herself, sitting purposefully on her hands. "I know you like apple cider and cherry is your favorite flavor for, like, everything, so I figured maybe apple cherry was the way to go," she explained. "If you don't like it, I can get you something else. They had apple juice and fruit punch and lemonade--"

"No," he said. "This is great. Really."

She pressed her lips together, smiling. "Good. I'm glad. About the juice. And that you're okay. You are okay, right? I mean, do you feel okay?"

"They've got me on the good stuff, I think," he said. "I can't really feel too much. It's all kind of soft around the edges."

"Well, soft around the edges can't be too bad," Rory said. She paused, fidgeting a little. "You probably don't want to talk about it. Do you?"

She was looking up at him hesitantly, her shoulders pulled back a little tentatively.

He could never deny her anything, he never had. He'd been hers since the moment he saw her. He'd spent the last year and a half devoted to her, putting her first, planning his life around her. What Rory wanted, he did his best to make sure Rory got. It felt weird to say _no_ to her.

But this wasn't Rory's for the taking. Everything else, yes. And this, maybe someday. But today--for today he just wanted to look at her and believe in something beautiful and good. To see her smile and remember love and safety, not fear and dread.

He gave a lopsided smile. "Not really," he said.

She nodded knowingly. "I totally understand," she said. "I just wanted you to know, if you ever, you know, need to talk or anything, I'm here. For you."

He thought about her, worrying about him. She would have, he realized suddenly. She would have made lists or organized phone calls. There was something going on with Jess, he couldn't be so stupid not to see, but she still had picked him, this time. She was still here. She still knew his favorite kind of juice or what he meant when he said not really and that had to count for something.

He needed it to count for something. Maybe not for always, but for today.

"Thanks," he said, wishing for the first time in days that this moment could last just a little bit longer. It didn't change what had happened. It didn't make the whole thing less terrifying, less emasculating. He had been powerless to stop it all then. He couldn't save himself. But he wasn't powerless now. He could save himself from the aftermath.

Her face lit up again, brighter now, more sure. "So, I have to know. Are hospital gowns as scandalous as my mother says they are?"

He raised his eyebrows, or tried, but with his swollen features, he wasn't sure how successful he was. "And then some. I'll try not to roll over in the presence of a lady."

Rory's smile took on a mischievous lilt and Dean let himself forget and remember in equal parts, the ones that mattered, as Rory rambled his doubts away.

-o-

With a life so up in the air as theirs, Dean was sort of glad to know that there were some things he could always count on. There would always be something to hunt, there would always be the Impala and the open road ahead of her, and his dad would always be pushing them out the door while Sam was hanging on for all it was worth. The push and pull, stressful as it could be, left Dean right where he wanted to be: in the middle of the only two people who really mattered to him in this world.

So he was relieved when he found his father with Sam's bag already back, scuttling around the hospital room, snapping curt orders at Sam.

"We're leaving in ten minutes, Sam," he said. "I know you probably want to pick a fight about that, too, but save it for the road. You know why we have to book it."

Indeed, they all did. Because the cops would be wanting to ask a few more questions soon, because the two yahoos in lockup would probably start saying some pretty weird things right about now, and they needed to be long gone before the cops thought to make them stay and before the hospital figured out that the DeAngelo family was not quite legit.

Sam mumbled something, pushing himself up off the bed slowly.

Their father spared Sam a glanced and a sigh. "It wouldn't be so bad if you didn't make it out to be," he said. When Sam didn't even look up, their father shook his head, and turned to Dean. "Make sure he's out at the car in ten minutes."

"Ten minutes," Dean affirmed. "Will do."

One more disparaging look at the youngest member of their intrepid clan, and their father was out the door.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "You sure didn't take long to piss him off."

Sam just rolled his eyes. "He's a jackass."

"And you're so stellar," Dean said. "The guy went nuts looking for you."

Sam looked at him with bland incredulity. "Nuts, huh? I'm sure he was beside himself."

So there hadn't been tears and gnashing of teeth. But the cold calculation of their dad's pursuit had suggested terror all the same. "You know what I mean."

Sam grunted, shifting his weight to his feet experimentally. "Yeah, well, his _concern_ lasted long enough to tell me just how much I suck."

"He doesn't think you suck."

"So he's telling me to drop all my school activities why?"

And therein was the heart of Sam's mopey-ness. "You really are a girl, aren't you? The hospital switched babies on us--gave us a little girl."

Sam shook his head, ignoring the meager attempt at levity. "You're just like him."

"Dude, he just wants you to be safe."

"And I said I would train more."

"You're easily distracted."

"I still saved your ass," Sam snapped.

"Exactly," Dean said. "That's what Dad sees. Your potential. You can excel at anything."

"But you two only want me to excel at _hunting_."

Dean just sighed. "I'm not getting into this with you," he said. "You know how Dad is. He'll push you harder, but it's not like you can't still do your stuff."

"I don't know," Sam said. "He seemed pretty sure that I shouldn't have time for it at all anymore."

"So you give up one geeky activity a week," Dean cajoled, moving forward to nudge Sam's good arm. "Trust me, you could use a little less geekery in your life."

Exasperated, Sam looked at him from under his bangs. "You don't get it."

"No, I get it better than you think. Dad got freaked. You were gone and it messed with his head. He needs to take steps to prevent that from happening again."

"Like it wasn't freaky for me!"

"You're the one who jumped out a window and charged back in unarmed," Dean said with a smirk. "Doesn't sound freaked to me."

Sam's shoulders tightened a little, defensive. "I had a concussion."

"Well, concussion boy, you impressed me, too."

Sam hesitated, then looked at Dean again. "Really?"

"Pretty tough crap, man," Dean said.

A small smile crept across his brother's face. "You know, I thought about what you would do," he admitted. "And you wouldn't have kept running through the woods."

"Damn straight I wouldn't."

Sam seemed to sigh, his body relaxing a little, defusing the sulky expression on his bruised features. "I knew you'd come for me."

"You _are_ a girl," Dean said, tousling Sam's hair. "Now you ready to blow this joint?"

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "I'd like to put Connecticut behind us for awhile."

Dean thought about the kid, the wee Dean, and figured that was probably best for all of them.

Sam was moving on his own, though with a guarded gait, and Dean walked close, but let the kid do it on his own.

They were just about out the building when they turned a corner and nearly ran right into two girls.

Or rather, one girl and one woman.

The brunette from the waiting room. Seeing her standing, the curves of her body were all the more noticeable, as was the long line of her legs.

"Sorry!" the girl was saying. "We weren't even looking--"

"Well, not at you, anyway," the older added.

"It's the coffee," the younger tried to explain.

"It's hard to focus when there's coffee."

The back and forth. The daughter. This was the daughter, the perfect compliment to her mother.

Sam, for his part, looked a little confused, perhaps a little scared. Of the coffee or the talking or the girls themselves, Dean couldn't quite be sure.

"Funny running into you again," Dean said.

The older one looked at him, a smile of recognition on her face. "Oh, hey!" she said. "You're still here. I mean, of course you're still here." She looked from him to Sam and back and then back at Sam again. "Oh--wow. That's--wow."

"You're the look-a-like!" the younger said. "Mom, this is the guy I was telling you about."

Mouth agape, the older was looking at Sam, who seemed cowed by the entire display. "You said he looked like him, but you didn't say he was like the long lost twin!"

"I said it looked like a cloning experiment gone right."

"And you weren't kidding."

"I never kid about cloning."

"So...you've met my brother?" Dean interjected.

The girls looked at him. "Briefly," the younger one said. "I mean, I stumbled into his room looking for my boyfriend."

"The other Dean," her mother interjected.

"Wait, _that's _the other Dean?" the daughter asked.

"I know," the mother said. "We have the Dean look-a-like and the other Dean and the real Dean."

"All made even weirder by the fact that there are two Lorelais."

Her mother's eyes widened. "That _is_ weird."

They didn't really have time for this. Their dad had said ten minutes, which really meant five minutes, but Dean couldn't resist. "Two Lorelais?"

"Me and her," the mother clarified. "We're both named Lorelai. Which, I know, a little weird, but I was lying there in the hospital thinking about how guys name kids after themselves all the time and I was-- you know, not really the point. Three Deans and two Lorelais."

"But, my name's Sam," his kid brother interjected, far too petulantly.

"Well, and they call me Rory."

Her mother held up her hand. "Stop. No splitting hairs here. Two Lorelais, two Deans, and a Sam."

"But that's kind of sad for Sam, don't you think," Rory pointed out.

Dean gave Sam's hair a good tousle again, and the kid blushed as he shied away. "Lots of things are kind of sad for Sam," he said.

"I'm glad to see you're feeling better," Lorelai offered. "Your brother was a little worried about you."

Sam glared at him, before offering a wan smile to Lorelai. "Definitely on the mend."

"Dean's getting better, too," Rory said brightly.

"Not you, Dean, our Dean. The cute Dean. Not that you aren't cute, but, you know, he's got that boyish-dimpled-first-boyfriend cute thing going on. Hence cute Dean. Wow. Just too many Deans."

"A rare problem," Rory agreed.

"Certainly not one I'm going to complain about, though. All these Deans, all these boys who look like Deans--it really is going to make quite the story someday."

"One they'll be retelling for years."

"Just wait till Miss Patty hears--she'll be envious."

"She'll retell it with more Deans."

"As if two aren't remarkable enough."

"You know Patty, always over the top."

It was amusing, watching them. Back and forth with the intensity of a tennis match. If Dean could stick around, maybe going after the mother would be worth it after all.

But Sam--well, the kid looked like the repartee was giving him a headache. Or a worse headache. And Dean had one responsibility--that one thing that he clung to to make his life better. Not to mention his dad would kick his ass if he were late. "There are some Deans you just can't top, ladies," he said with a grin. "And I would love to stay and prove my point but my brother here still needs his rest."

"Yes, yes, of course," Lorelai said quickly. "We already have one Dean to keep us company, vying for two would just be selfish of us."

"Hey, you think I'm sharing my Dean?" Rory said, her brow furrowed.

"Oh, honey, you already do," her mother said, putting her arm around her and pulling her close. "He kills my spiders."

"He kills mine, too."

"Yes, but he changes my water bottle."

"Which I also use."

"I asked him out first."

"He made me a car."

Lorelai smiled at him, neatly ignoring her daughter. "Kids. You give them the world, they won't even share their boyfriends."

Dean grinned. "It was a pleasure meeting you, ladies," he said. "I only wish it were under better circumstances."

"Yeah, next time you're in town, you can just say hello. You don't even have to rescue anyone and we'll still like you."

"I'll definitely keep that in mind," he said. Then he turned to Sam, who looked paler than before and listing a little. "If you two will excuse us, I'm going to get Sammy here to the car."

"I'll let you know about that case study," Rory offered, looking at Sam.

He smiled half-heartedly. "I can't wait to read it."

"You two take care, okay?" Lorelai said.

Dean flashed her one more smile, broad and toothy and as sure as ever. "We always do."

With that, he nudged Sam, turning them down the hall. Over his shoulder he could still hear the two women, going back and forth about case studies and the unique qualities of the name Dean.

His brother was moving slowly, but Dean figured the kid was due. With all the injuries and stress of the last few days, Dean wouldn't begrudge him that.

Didn't mean that he'd spare his brother from his outstanding conversational skills. "Can you imagine _two _Deans?" he asked.

Sam snorted. "I'd rather not."

"Double the skill. Double the good looks. There wouldn't be anything we couldn't hunt and no woman we couldn't woo."

Sam crinkled his nose. "Stop putting two of yourself in a three-way. That's just--weird."

"That'd be one lucky lady."

"Are you trying to make me sick?"

Dean laughed, relieved to hear the humor creeping back into his brother's voice. "Only with jealousy."

"You wish," Sam said, pushing him slightly.

He chuckled softly. "Bitch."

Sam scowled, ducking his head, his hair obscuring the dark bruises on his face as he hugged his bad arm close to his body. He wasn't better, not yet, but he would be. "Jerk."

It was a little sulky, a bit petulant, and just so very little brother. So Sam. After everything, after kidnappings and not-Sams, after half-baked rescues and gunshot wounds, after his father's staunch ire and innocent boys caught in the crossfire, this was still Sam. Still Sam and him, still brothers. When the rest of the world was crazy or in disarray, Dean could always trust in that.

_end_


End file.
